


Youth is But a Blink in Time

by accidentallyonpurpose



Series: The Young Life of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff, Growing Up, John Plays the Piano, Kid Fic, Kidlock, M/M, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Slight Canon Divergence, Work In Progress, because it's their childhood, growing into canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 35,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accidentallyonpurpose/pseuds/accidentallyonpurpose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Mycroft growing up, and their adventures when they meet Lestrade and John. A modern au kidfic working it's way up to the canon (with slight variations i.e. they actually know each other as children).</p><p>Updating roughly on Wednesday, probably every second Wednesday with the occasional weekly post.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Violin Lesson

"I don't want to!"  
"Sherlock Holmes, you will do as you are told!" Mycroft's youthful voice rang out in the close quarters of the car. It was stopped outside a squat, grey, sprawling building with a sign that read "Smithson's Music Academy". At Sherlock's tiny feet lay a small violin case, containing a beautifully crafted violin that fit perfectly into his small three year old hands. "Now come on, pick up your violin case and off we go." Sherlock determinedly crossed his arms and stuck his lower lip out in a pout.  
"No!"  
"Then I shall have to carry you in in an extremely undignified manner." After a few more moments of contemplative and stony silence, Sherlock uncrossed his arms, picked up his violin and glared at Mycroft, huffing in annoyance. Mycroft quickly got out of the car and offered his hand to his still pouting brother, sensing that this was the most positive reaction he was going to get. Sherlock let Mycroft lead him into the building by the hand, sullenly swinging his violin case.  
"Why must I take violin lessons?"  
"Because it’s good for your cerebral development."  
"Yes, well I'm sure I could get cere- cerebulal development fine at home."  
"Cerebral, Sherlock. And I'm sure you could develop mentally at home, but Mummy and Daddy insist you do at least two years with a tutor outside the family. It will improve your social skills, and diversify your learning. Or that's the theory anyway; personally, I don’t think taking lessons will have the least effect on your social skills."  
Sherlock stuck his tongue out at Mycroft and snarky replied, "Obviously not, your social skills are still rubbish and you've taken LOADS of classes." Mycroft was saved having to retaliate when they reached the front reception of the music institution. The room was spacious, with two rows of plastic chairs and a reception counter made of sleek marble. It spoke of understated wealth, not too showy but elegant enough to convey the money behind it.  
As they reached the desk, Mycroft took stock of the young man seated behind it. Fifteen to seventeen years old, graceful and skillful fingers of a talented piano player, left-handed, chestnut brown hair and a devilishly handsome smile. Came from a working class family, but taking lessons at the expensive institution. Possibly working front reception to compensate for his lessons. And definitely watching Mycroft stand silently and stare at him. Mycroft cleared his throat in slight embarrassment.  
"Ahem, yes. Sherlock here has a lesson with Mr. Leonard Smithson, for 6 o'clock." The boy looked down at Sherlock and gave him a big grin.  
"Sherlock, is it? That's a fun name. Mine's Greg, Greg Lestrade," he said, directing this last part up to Mycroft.  
"Mycroft Holmes, and this is Sherlock," Mycroft nodded in polite response.  
"Yeah, you said already," Greg replied, a cheeky edge sneaking it's way into his smile. "Six o'clock you said? Ah yes, here he is. Lesson with Smithson, violin. First time here?"  
"Yes," Sherlock piped up. "I was removed from the last two music institutions for being too smart." Mycroft shot a dry glance at Sherlock.  
"That's not quite how your past instructors put it." Greg gave a dry chuckle and a raised brow.  
"Mr. Smithson's used to dealing with 'smarter' children," the air quotes were implied. "If you lads want to take a seat, he'll be with you shortly." Giving a nod of thanks, Mycroft took Sherlock's small hand and lead him towards a pair of empty chairs. Mycroft lifted Sherlock under the armpits and sat him on a chair, taking the one next to him. Sherlock's violin case rested on his lap, and he played moodily with a loose thread on the case, swinging his legs. Mycroft pulled out his phone and tapped on it, letting young Ms. Williams know they had made it to Sherlock's lesson. Ms. Williams was their housekeeper, a young woman in her early twenties who was a hopeless romantic and enjoyed a strong cup of tea.  
Putting his phone away, Mycroft looked around the sparse room and it's simplistic furnishing, noting three separate doors leading deeper into the building. One of these doors was opening now, admitting a middle aged man and a young boy roughly Sherlock's age.  
"Alright John, good work, we'll see you next week." The man clapped the boy on the shoulder.  
"Thanks, Mr. Smithson!" John piped from under the large hand on his shoulder, blushing a light pink at the praise. There were a few parents in the waiting room, but none seemed to share John's sandy blonde hair or short stature. John looked around and, after letting his shoulders slump fractionally, sat down in a chair directly across from Mycroft and Sherlock. Mr. Smithson followed, approaching them.  
"You must be Sherlock Holmes. I'm Mr. Smithson." Mycroft stood and Sherlock slid off his seat, the younger reaching for Smithson's proffered hand. After a firm shake, Smithson turned to Mycroft, offering the same gesture.  
"Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother." He shook the music instructor's hand. "Unfortunately, our parents couldn't make it today." Mr. Smithson gave him a knowing look and put a hand on Sherlock's small back.  
"Today we'll be doing a half-hour session instead of the regular hour long session, to get a feel for Sherlock's skill and working style. Ready to go?" This last was directed at Sherlock, who glared sullenly in response. Without further ado, Smithson lead Sherlock through a door, closing it behind him. Now all Mycroft could do was wait for the inevitable shouting and frustration that seemed to shadow his brother wherever he went.  
Sitting back down, Mycroft crossed his legs and rested his clasped hands on top of them. He locked eyes with the little sandy haired boy in front of him.  
"You have a funny name," John blurted, blushing as he did so. It seemed to be a regular occurrence.  
"And you have quite a common one," Mycroft retaliated.  
"Your brother's name is funny too," John continued, emboldened by Mycroft's apparent lack of anger.  
"Yes, our parents were quite inventive."  
"Do you have any other brothers or sisters?" Here Mycroft passed for a beat.  
"No, no we don't. Do you?"  
"Just one sister, but she's kind of a bugger. She's twelve." Mycroft's eyebrow raised at the young boy's use of the word bugger, but he let it slide.  
"And how old are you, young John?"  
"I'm Four and three quarters. I don't really know how much three quarters is, but I know I'm almost five! How old're you and Sherlock?"  
"Sherlock is almost four, and I am fourteen."  
"Wow, you're like…" John's eyebrows furrowed in concentration, "well, I haven't learned how to do minuses yet, but you're like a lot older than me!" Mycroft shook his head exasperatedly at the exuberant young boy beaming in front of him.  
"Nine years, John. I'm nine years older than you."  
"Cool! I haven't even turned nine yet!" A tinkling bell over the exterior door signalled the entrance of a parent. "Mum!" John leapt up out of his chair and scurried over to the hassled-looking woman at the door.  
"Hey Johnny, sorry I'm late. Had to pick up Harry from detention again."  
"It's okay Mum, I made a friend. Bye Mycroft!" John waved from across the room and, grabbing his mother's hand, led her out the front door. She cast a quick confused glance over her shoulder before straightening out and following her son.  
As the door clinked behind them, the room descended into a fuller silence, save a few parents who were murmuring quietly to each other or their accompanying children. Mycroft leaned back into his chair once more and closed his eyes, preparing to enter his mind palace when a throat being cleared interrupted him. Opening his eyes, he glanced toward the source of the noise, taking in the sight of the boy from the desk, no longer at his workstation but instead hovering at Mycroft's side, obviously trying not to fidget.  
"Yes?" Mycroft asked, trying not to sound too rude.  
"Yeah, right well, um, just wanted to say hi. You looked a little lonely here all by yourself."  
"I assure you, I was fine. But thank you for your concern." He smiled politely at the boy. Although he wasn't a complete stranger to social interaction, Mycroft had a social default of becoming cooly polite, finding this was the best way to prevent anyone from getting too close to him and ultimately breaking him when he was vulnerable. The boy seemed to pause a moment, and a warm smile spread across his face.  
"So Sherlock's your younger brother, eh? Seems like a bit of a handful."  
"Mmm, we manage."  
"Got an older sister and a younger brother and sister at home, so I know where you're coming from. Real ankle-biters, aren't they?" He spoke as if both him and Mycroft weren't children themselves.  
"Yes, there's definitely excitement enough in our lives."  
"So Sherlock, he's really smart then, is he?"  
"Yes, we are both of higher than average intelligence." He left it there, feeling no need to go into detail.  
The door that Sherlock and Smithson had entered opened, and out came a shockingly calm man and a slightly cowed boy. Mycroft realized with a start that the entire time had elapsed for today's lesson; it hadn't been cut early, which was what happened to most of Sherlock's lessons. Mycroft stood and straightened his jacket, reaching for Sherlock's hand as the pair approached. "Sherlock here is talented, of that I have no doubt. It's the discipline required to perform perfectly that may prove to be a challenge. But we have made progress today and I have no doubt that things will only improve." Although it wasn't the shining commendation John had received, it was better than any previous instructors had given.  
"Thank you very much. You will be taking Sherlock on as a student then, I assume?"  
"I would be delighted to have him, if he'll have me." At that, Sherlock looked up first a Smithson, then at Mycroft.  
"Well, he's not all awful," Sherlock admitted grudgingly.  
"And that's the best we're going to get," Mycroft admitted drily. "I'll settle up the payment with Mr. Lestrade, then?"  
"Call me Greg, please," Greg said at the same time that Mr. Smithson said "Perfect," clapping his hands and motioning the two teenagers back towards the front desk. The three of them headed back to the counter, and Mycroft pulled out the family credit card.  
"I'll be paying with credit card." Lestrade looked impressed for a moment.  
"Alright, here's the machine. It'll prompt you there." Once the transaction was done and Mycroft had been given a receipt, the two brothers left the building with a promise to see Greg next week.  
"So, how did you find the lesson?" Mycroft asked, bracing himself for a scathing response.  
"Well, Smithson is an entire idiot, obviously, and his knowledge in music is rudimentary at best, but if that's all you can scrounge up for me, I suppose he'll do." So a rousing success, then. Sherlock flounced dramatically into the black car that waited for them. Mycroft followed behind Sherlock, considerably more composed than his melodramatic younger brother.  
"Well then, I'm sure you'll look forward to next week."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.

Three weeks and three violin lessons passed without too many hiccups. Smithson was firm but kind with Sherlock, who in turn responded with less snark and resistance than normal. This didn't mean that everything went smoothly, but it did indicate that Sherlock may have found a permanent violin tutor. Every time they arrived at the studio, John would dutifully greet Mycroft and engage him in conversation until his mother picked him up. This never failed to amuse Mycroft, who enjoyed the change of pace from his brother who, if he wasn't running at a mile a minute, was pouting and unresponsive.  
At that momentMycroft was sitting in the library doing some light reading while Sherlock was studying a book on insects. They were winding down after a day of outdoor gallivanting and collection of soil samples. An annoyed huff escaped the younger Holmes and his dark curls fell into his eyes as his head swung towards his older brother.  
"Mycroft, I'm bored. Can we do an experiment?" An innocent question, but one that had sparked many minor explosions and one memorably blue toddler.  
"It's too late tonight but I'll tell you what, Sherlock. You memorize the parts of a bee, a grasshopper and an ant, and we can dissect all three tomorrow afternoon." Sherlock's eyes lit up in anticipation.  
"Will you let me do the dissecting?"  
"Maybe I'll let you do the initial cut, if you're good." Sherlock's eyes immediately fell to his book with renewed vigour, his little mouth working to sound out the terms in from of him. Mycroft could see his eyebrows fall lower and lower on his head as he had trouble sounding out the larger words. "Come here," he said to Sherlock, all hopes of finishing his novel vanishing. Quickly Sherlock scooped up the book and scampered over to the leather chair Mycroft sat in. Handing Mycroft his prized possession to hold, Sherlock clambered into Mycroft's lap and settled himself in before reclaiming the book. He opened it first to the page with a diagram of a bee on it. He pointed to the head, looking at Mycroft questioningly.  
Mycroft pointed specific parts out with his own finger. "Can you read that one?"  
"An-Antenna."  
"Very good. How about that one?" He moved his finger slightly lower.  
"P-Pro-Prob- I don't know."  
"Proboscis. Repeat after me." And he did. They sat there for fifteen minutes, Sherlock reading out the simpler words and Mycroft reading the more difficult ones while prompting Sherlock to imitate him. Although Sherlock was at an advanced intellectual level for his age, he still only had the I.Q. of an intelligent seven year old.  
They were interrupted by a knock at the library door. "Woo hoo! How are we getting along, dears?" Ms. Williams poked her head in, taking in the scene before her.  
"Good, Ms. Williams, thank you. Was there anything you required?"  
"Just popped by to let you lads know that your parents' car just pulled in the drive. They should be in in about five minutes. I'll let them know you're here."  
"Thank you, Ms. Williams. Could you bring us some refreshments?"  
"I will this time, but I'm your housekeeper, not your servant dear," she tutted as she walked towards the kitchen to fetch refreshments. Sherlock looked at Mycroft, excitement bright in his eyes.  
"I can tell them all about my violin lesson this week! And how we played Kings of the Castle, and how I'm learning all the different parts of bugs!"  
"I don't know that they'll want to hear all that. How about you pick one thing, and if they ask for more you can tell them the rest, okay?"  
"But why, Mycroft?" Sherlock's lower lip was starting to slide out into a pout.  
"Because they don't always have time to hear everything you want to say, Sherlock. They are very busy people who care for you very much. Now suck that lower lip back in and put on a happy face. I'm sure Mummy won't want to see you sad." Sherlock did as he was told, straightening his spine just a little. "And put your book away." Sherlock scrambled off Mycroft's lap and hurried to put his book on a shelf in the bookcase dedicated to children's stories. Mycroft got up and, after bookmarking his own novel, put it away as well.  
Sherlock approached him and Mycroft crouched down to meet him at eye level. "Remember, just because they seem distracted does not mean they don't love you. They care deeply for both of us." While talking, Mycroft straightened Sherlock's little jumper and smoothed down his unruly curls, to no avail. Standing up, Mycroft placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder reassuringly. Moments later, the door opened to reveal a man and a woman, both dressed in smart, professional attire.  
"My boys!" Mrs. Holmes gushed, holding out her arms in invitation.  
"Hello Mother," Mycroft intoned as Sherlock rushed into her outstretched arms but pulled back a moment later to allow his words to flow uninhibited.  
"Mummy! I have so much to tell you. I had a violin lesson and Mr. Smithson said I was making great inprovement!"  
"Improvement," Mr. Holmes corrected.  
"Yes, Daddy," Sherlock said, disentangling himself completely from his mother.  
"That's good to hear," Mrs. Holmes said as she turned towards her elder son.  
"He really has been making great advances," Mycroft confirmed.  
"And what about you, Mikey?"  
"I've been well, thank you mother. Making sure Sherlock is advancing in his preliminary studies, preparing him for school in the fall. I've also been re-reading some of the classics in my spare time, Jane Austen, Shakespeare, Charles Dickens and the like."  
"That sounds lovely dear. We are terribly sorry we haven't been around this last week, your father's had late nights at the surgery, and I've been staying late to work at the University. And then Rhonda had her party, and there was the function the other night and, well, you know how it is." Mycroft nodded his agreement. It was always one thing or another, resulting in snatched moments of time with their parents.  
"We do have a surprise for you boys though," Mr. Holmes chimed in from beside his wife. Sherlock's eyes lit up and he glanced between his parents excitedly, bouncing on his toes.  
"What is it?" Mrs. Holmes leaned out the open door and beckoned to an unseen person down the hall. Ms. Williams walked in a moment later with a bronze-red furry bundle in her arms. She looked equal part skeptical and smitten.  
"Is that… a puppy?" Sherlock asked reverently, excitement laced through his voice.  
"We thought he would be a nice companion for you boys to play with," Mrs. Holmes admitted.  
"And it might teach you some responsibility. Caring for a dog is no small feat," Mr. Holmes chimed in. Sherlock rocked forward on his toes, straining to see the squirming ball of fur while still staying in place.  
"Oh put him down, let Sherlock see him," Mrs. Holmes told Ms. Williams. Setting the puppy down gently, Ms. Williams pushed it in the direction of the now crouching Sherlock.  
"Come here, boy," was all that needed to be said before the little ball of fur shot itself at the young toddler. It lept up and licked Sherlock's face, washing him in dog breath and practically knocking him over. Sherlock, however, was delighted and laughter bubbled up from him, infectiously washing over the room and causing the mood to lighten remarkably..  
"Thank you, Mummy and Daddy! This is the best present ever!" Sherlock panted from the floor. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes smiled down at him. Mycroft, however, looked slightly apprehensive as he hung back behind Sherlock. When Sherlock craned his neck to look at him, Mycroft quickly morphed his expression into a meager smile.  
"Have you thought of a name yet, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock's small brow furrowed in concentrated consideration.  
Then his brow cleared as he exclaimed "Redbeard!" His latest childhood obsession was pirates, and it seemed this obsession was going to carry over to his new pet.  
"Redbeard it is, then. A fine companion for a courageous pirate. If it's amenable with our parents, I do believe it's time you start preparing for bed." Sherlock pulled what Mycroft liked to call his "deceivingly charming eyes", more commonly known as puppy dog eyes. He swung his gaze from Mycroft to his parents, obviously to manipulate those that had less exposure to it's effects.  
"I'm afraid Mycroft is right, darling. It is time you departed. We'll come say goodnight once you're all ready for bed."  
"Okay," Sherlock said resignedly, taking Mycroft's proffered hand and standing. "Can he sleep with me tonight?" Sherlock's pouting lip joined his puppy dog eyes, and Mycroft felt his demeanour soften.  
"Yes, alright, but if it starts whining, it's up to you to deal with it, is that clear?"  
"Yes of course. But he won't. We'll be best friends." Mycroft chose not to voice his skepticism, but instead led Sherlock towards his bedroom and the bedtime routine they had built together. It involved Sherlock getting his pajamas from his room while Mycroft drew a bath. Sherlock would then join him and hop into the bath, thus commencing a battle of wits and strength. So far Mycroft had won every battle waged, resulting in Sherlock being clean from head to toe and sometimes even resulting in a wet and unimpressed Mycroft. This particular night there was the addition of the ever excitable Redbeard who continuously leaped around the tub, alternating between trying to catch a glimpse of Sherlock and join him in the bath. This led to Mycroft blocking both the puppy's and Sherlock's numerous attempts to best him.  
The bath did end, eventually, with one pajama-clad child, one slightly damp puppy and one teenager near the end of his proverbial leash. "Alright Sherlock, into bed. I'll go get Mummy and Daddy so they can say goodnight. Try to keep Redbeard on the bed with you." With that he left the room and went back to the library to retrieve their parents.  
He was met with the sight of both his parents sitting in adjacent chairs, each with a tumbler of brandy in one hand and a book in the other. He cleared his throat loudly. "Sherlock's ready for bed, if you'd like to say goodnight." Two heads swivelled towards him.  
"Yes of course, lead the way." Both parents set their drinks and books down and stood to follow Mycroft. When they reached the room, Mycroft stood aside to let his parents go first and trailed in behind them. "Yes, all tucked in Sherlock?"  
"Yes, Mummy. Do you think you could read me a story?" He held in his hands "How I Became a Pirate" by Melinda Long. It was a sort of guilty pleasure for Sherlock, a story that he usually deemed too childish but that he enjoyed on special occasions. Mycroft was relieved that he chose the short picture book instead of the chapters from books he usually requested of Mycroft.  
"Well I suppose one story couldn't hurt. What have we got here… Ah, a pirate book. I think I see a trend now. Here we go. 'Pirates have green teeth- when they have any teeth at all." And so the story was read, Mrs. Holmes reading the majority of the story with Mr. Holmes providing the voices of the characters. Redbeard curled into Sherlock's side and fell asleep as he clung onto every word.  
After many "Ahoys!" and "shiver me timbers!" the book was finished and stowed in it's place of honour on Sherlock's bookshelf. "And with that, I believe it's time for you to go to sleep. Good night, my dear little pirate. I hope you have sweet dreams of swashbuckling and plenty of treasure." She laid a tender kiss on his head and patted his leg.  
"Goodnight, Sherlock," their father repeated, putting a hand on his shoulder and kissing him on the forehead, copying his wife.  
"Goodnight Mummy and Daddy! Will you be here tomorrow?"  
"I don't know, sweetheart. We are very busy these days. But we'll see you soon, okay? We love you."  
"But I haven't told you all about my violin lessons, and the experiments I've performed!"  
"Next time Sherlock. Now go to sleep." Their father's voice left little room for arguing. Sherlock's lower lip jutted out, his brows started to lower and his arms started to cross. His gaze shifted behind his parents to Mycroft, who had his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised in a silent reminder for Sherlock to behave.  
"Good night," he mumbled without sucking in his lower lip or uncrossing his arms.  
"Don't be like that, dear, it's unbecoming. I promise next time you will be able to tell us all you want."  
"Promise?"  
"Promise." And with a final smile and a wink, she turned and walked out of the room, Mr. Holmes following in her wake. This left Sherlock and Mycroft alone in the room, silence thick in the air.  
"Can you read me a chapter from Treasure Island? Please?" His protruding lip started wobbling ominously.  
"Yes, alright, but only one." Mycroft went to the bookshelf and took down Sherlock's copy of Treasure Island, an antique copy Mycroft had specially ordered when he had discovered Sherlock's obsession with pirates. Sitting on the side of the bed not occupied by a puppy, Mycroft settled himself against the headboard and tucked Sherlock under his arm, opening the book to their current chapter and starting to read.  
"It was longer than the squire imagined ere we were ready for the sea…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my loveliest beta! She's the best and most patient person ever!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock falls into one of his infamous strops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is unfortunately un-beta'd but will be touched up once my beta gets her hands on it. Thanks for reading! Leave kudos and comments- I love every one of them!

It had been a rough day. Well a rough week, really. It wasn't anything Sherlock or Mycroft could control, these moods just happened. Sometimes it started with an obvious trigger, such as a broken toy, a stubbed toe or a difficult concept to learn; other times, there was no catalyst, no warning.  
This time, there had been no tip-off. Mycroft had woken that morning at 6 a.m. on the dot, as he usually did. But an hour later, when he went to wake Sherlock, he was greeted with an unresponsive and moody toddler.  
"Sherlock. It's time to get up."  
"Sherlock. Rouse yourself. It's time to start the day."  
"Sherlock, I am not jesting. Out of bed. Now."  
Mycroft did not have time for this. Although these months were considered his summer vacation, they certainly didn't feel like it. They were filled with trying to expand Sherlock's knowledge, keep him out of trouble and nurture his growing intellect, in addition to keeping his own mind sharp. This had kept the duo to a relative daily schedule, which started with breakfast and showers, followed by a three hour study session touching on different subjects everyday. Then came lunch, and an afternoon equally divided between book studies, experiments or practical studies, and playing. Supper followed, and then the evening was free to Sherlock's whim until his eight o'clock bedtime. This meant that occasionally they studied more in the evening, but more often they would play or perform experiments.  
There had only been a handful of these moods of Sherlock's in the past, resulting in one teenager who was rather inexperienced in dealing with said moods. This was the reason why, on that morning, Mycroft marched up to Sherlock's bed and ripped back the sheets, exposing the toddler to the open air.  
"No!" came the petulant shout, and Sherlock rolled over and buried his face in his pillow.  
"Get up, now!"  
"You can't make me!"  
"Watch me." Mycroft reached out and grabbed Sherlock around the middle, intent on bodily lifting the toddler out of bed. Despite his small size and stature, Sherlock put up a good fight and managed to land a few well-placed blows before Mycroft evicted him from his bed and dumped him unceremoniously on the floor.  
"No! Nonononono!"  
"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous! Stop this instant. This behaviour is childish."  
"I am a child!" The shrill reply was shrieked from the floor where Sherlock had curled up, slightly muffled by the arms flung over his face. Mycroft had no rebuttal and decided to change tactics.  
"Please, Sherlock. We don't even have to study this morning. We can play pirates instead, or spacemen. Or we can do experiments. How does that sound?"  
"No!" Mycroft's patience was starting to wear thin.  
"I don't care, Sherlock. You will do as you're told, and you will do it punctually! Now rouse yourself so we can get you downstairs."  
Sherlock's arms fell heavily from his face and hit the floor with a resounding thump. Sharp blue eyes glared at the ceiling with all the intensity a three year old could muster. Tiny feet fell flat on the floor as his knees bent to leverage himself up into a sitting position, while keeping the glare fixed firmly on his face. He then moodily pushed himself off the ground and into a standing position, crossing his arms sullenly once he had reached his full height.  
"Thank you. Now, let's go down to breakfast." He led an unresponsive Sherlock down to the small dining room intended for intimate meals. Their breakfast was already laid out, each plate piled high with eggs, bacon and pancakes, as well as a cup of tea for Mycroft and a glass of orange juice for Sherlock.  
Sherlock took his place at the table, banging and stomping more than was strictly necessary. Once he had successfully seated himself, he took up his cross-armed position and glared at his eggs as if they had committed some personal crime against him.  
"No."  
"Just a bite, Sherlock. That's all I ask. A bite of each and then you don't have to eat anymore."  
"No."  
"If you don't eat, you won't have any energy to play today. then you won't be able to play with Redbeard. Wouldn't that be a shame?" Although arguing with a three year old was virtually impossible, arguing with Sherlock while using logic tended to get some results, limited as they were.  
Sherlock reluctantly scooped a forkful of eggs into his mouth while still managing to glower menacingly.

And so went the rest of the day, each minute a struggle to get Sherlock to accomplish a small task. Even getting him to bed at the end of the day was a Herculean task, and required several chapters of “The Book of Pirates” to be read before the toddler acquiesced to sleep.

Then came the violin lesson.

It was day three in the fabulously stroppy mood Sherlock had found himself in, and Mycroft was at his wit's end.  
They arrived at the Smithson's building as usual and although Sherlock was not talking to Mycroft, his dark mood hung around him like a storm cloud. They entered and Mycroft sat sherlock in a seat before perching himself on the adjacent seat.  
"It must hurt to have your brow furrowed all the time," a voice commented from beside Sherlock's chair. Two sets of eyes swung over to see Greg sitting in the chair on Sherlock's other side, a grin lighting his face. Sherlock didn't answer. "You know, I heard this funny science joke the other day. You like science, right?" Greg and Mycroft had been sporadically having short conversations mostly about Sherlock, often followed by awkward silences while they waited for Sherlock’s lesson to end. Thus Greg had learned of Sherlock's love of science. Sherlock didn't respond, but his expressions cleared minutely in interest. "Okay, here goes. Why can't you trust atoms? They make up everything." Although Sherlock's expression didn't lighten, it didn't darken either. "No? Alright let me try one last one. This one's about music. Why was the piano player arrested? Because he got into treble." Mycroft chortled, the bad pun so ridiculous he couldn't contain his laughter. Sherlock shifted his glare to his brother, rolled his eyes and uncrossed his arms. It wasn't laughter or even a smile, but it was better than Mycroft had managed in the past three days. At that moment, Smithson came into the lobby, John hot on his heels.  
"Alright Sherlock, let's go." Sherlock hopped out of his chair and followed Smithson through the door.  
"Hi Mycroft!" John said, popping himself into the chair across from Mycroft and Greg.  
"Hello John, and how are you today?"  
"Oh you know, the same old stuff. Learnin' songs on the piano."  
"Ah yes, and what's your favourite piece?" Mycroft inquired  
"Ode to Joy is my favourite so far. It's also the hardest to play, but I like the challenge. And it sounds cool!" Mycroft and Greg chuckled.  
All three boys turned towards the door as the bell jingled.  
"Mum! You're early!" John sounded a mixture of happy and disappointed. Mrs. Watson, her hair a frazzled halo escaping it's ponytail, smiled down at John.  
"Yes, dear I got off a bit early at the surgery today. I've also got to make your payment for this month." Here she looked pointedly at Greg.  
"Oh, sorry yes, right over here," he exclaimed, leaping up and heading behind the counter. They quickly made the exchange, Mrs. Watson writing a cheque for an amount of money that Mycroft couldn't help but notice was considerably smaller than the amount he had paid for Sherlock.  
"Come along, John," she called, holding her hand out to John who had been in the middle of explaining exactly all the "cool" points of Ode to Joy.  
"… and the notes all sound really good together!" he quickly finished, vaulted out of his seat and bounded towards his mother. "Bye Mycroft, bye Greg!" They left the building quickly, the door jingling merrily in their wake.  
"You know, I don't get how that little bugger can have so much energy all the time," Greg commented casually.  
"You are quite correct. He is filled with an exuberance that is insurmountable by most."  
"Do him and Sherlock get on, then?"  
"Well, I am quite uncertain as they have not interacted much past a few greetings." It was true that, although John and Mycroft were quickly becoming acquainted due to John's having to wait for his mother, he had not interacted much with Sherlock.  
"Yeah, but like they'll probably hit it off, huh?" Lestrade was grinning. "They're both very exuberant young boys. Does Sherlock have many friends?"  
Mycroft tried not to shift uncomfortably. "Sherlock is," here he hesitated "well, frankly he's more intelligent than most boys his age and finds them insufferably dull."  
"So that's a no then. But he didn't seem too bad with John, did he?"  
"As previously mentioned, they haven't really interacted."  
"No, but they've been introduced and Sherlock didn't seem too caustic, did he?"  
Mycroft thought on it. No, although Sherlock hadn't been warm and welcoming, he hadn't been biting or dismissive either. "I suppose there may be some hope for them. I was thinking of incorporating a visit to the park in our daily routine, maybe I will instigate it. It would do him good to interact with children his age, would it not?"  
"Yeah, I think it would be good for him. He must get lonely, being stuck inside all day."  
Mycroft took slight offence at that. "It is not for my lack of trying Gregory. I have tried time and again to get him to engage with others, but he refuses. Most days he barely tolerates me, but we manage."  
"No Mycroft, I didn't mean it that way," Greg hastened to backpedal. "Of course you're good with him, how can you not be? Just look at how smart he is." Mycroft didn't mention that the intellect was not really his doing, instead graciously accepting the apology for what it was. He straightened his suit jacket and nodded his agreement.  
"You are right, he is quite smart. He's also been in a bit of a strop lately."  
"Yeah, I noticed when you came in. What's up with him?"  
"He gets in these moods. They are usually unpredictable and quite ugly. I've actually never seen anyone be able to lighten his mood. Usually he will awaken one morning and he will act as if nothing had happened. I was quite impressed."  
"Eh, what can I say? I'm a natural." This was accompanied by a charming smile and a roguish wink. Mycroft felt his face flush and couldn't stop from fidgeting this time. He cleared his throat.  
"Er, um yes. Right, well thank you. For that. Cheering him up. Hopefully it will stick with him."  
"Yeah, no problem. Ah, and here's the ankle biter now!"This was said as the door to the practice room opened and Sherlock and his instructor emerged, his instructor looking a little more frazzled than usual.  
"We unfortunately did not make as much progress as we could have today, but I'm sure we will make more headway next week." M.r Smithson patted Sherlock on the shoulder. The toddler, for his part, looked just as stormy as when he had entered the music school.  
"What do you say, Sherlock?" Mycroft prompted after taking the little boy's hand.  
"Thank you, Mr. Smithson," Sherlock mumbled darkly. Mycroft was thankful that he had at least said something.  
"You're quite welcome Sherlock. Hopefully you're feeling better next week."  
"Goodbye Mr. Smithson, Greg," Mycroft said, nodding at each in turn.  
"Bye Mycroft. See ya, Sherlock!" Greg responded. Mr. Smithson just nodded to Mycroft. The brothers exited the building and entered the black car waiting for them.  
The drive home was a silent one. When they arrived home, Mycroft told Sherlock he had a half hour of free time before his bedtime routine would start. "What would you like to do in that time?"  
"Nothing." Ah, so they had arrived back at this.  
"So you would like to sit and stare off into space, then?"  
"No."  
"If you're going to be like this, you will be going to bed early tonight. Is that what you would like?" Sherlock didn't answer, but instead crossed his arms and scowled unresponsively. Mycroft huffed. "Alright, bath time it is. Go get your pajamas. Meet me in the bathroom." Sherlock stomped off to do as he was bid.  
Bathtime included a considerable amount of strong-arming and coercion on Mycroft's part, and silence and mulishness on Sherlock's part. When Sherlock was situated in bed, Mycroft tucked the blankets snugly in around him.  
"Would you like a story tonight?"'  
"Yes. But I would like you to tell me a story, instead of just reading one."  
Mycroft didn't want to argue, since Sherlock was being rather amenable. "Alright, any particular tale you would like to hear?"  
"No. Just make one up." Mycroft, a little peeved by his brother's bossiness, thought hard for a minute.  
"This is not a tale for the weak of heart," he started, affecting a spookier voice. Sherlock scoffed quietly. He was silenced by a raised brow. "This is a cautionary tale.  
It is known that there are many forces that are not to be reckoned with in the universe. The East wind counts itself among these forces.  
Once, there was a little boy. He was a contrite little boy, who would flash hot one day and cold the next. One day he was in quite the temper, shouting and stomping his feet in an unattractive manner. 'No!' He would shout, day and night. No to this and no to that. Those around him tried to appease him, but to no avail. Just as everyone around this boy was about to give up, something miraculous happened. A man dressed in an Oriental silk robe crusted with beautiful embroidery appeared beside the little boy and presented his hand. 'Come with me' the man said.  
The little boy petulantly asked 'Why?'  
'I can take you to a paradise beyond belief.'  
'No!' the little boy cried. The Oriental man looked angry, stomped his foot and roared. 'No? Do you know who I am? I am the East Wind and for defying me, I will bring upon destruction!" With that the man disappeared; on his heels came a wind so powerful it knocked the little boy off his feet and carried him away from those he had bothered, leaving behind nothing but a desolate wasteland. The little boy was carried away to an eternity of atoning for his many sins. The end."  
Sherlock had the covers pulled up around his chin. "Okay. Goodnight." His eyes were slightly wider than normal, but his voice remained steady.  
"Goodnight, Sherlock." Mycroft, convinced his cautionary tale had made its point, nodded once and exited Sherlock's room, leaving the door to the hallway slightly ajar.  
And if a little body curled itself around a larger counterpart in the middle of the night, neither boy would mention it in the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft visit the park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed, as my beta is currently a busy bee. Enjoy, and feel free to leave kudos and comments!

Sunlight caressed exposed skin and the scent of fresh grass and nature infiltrated nostrils more used to books and indoors. Giggling voices floated around heads, high pitched and care-free. A teenaged boy sat on a bench in a dress shirt and trousers, discarded suit jacket laying carefully at his side. He alternated between reading the book in his lap and astutely observing the children cavorting on the park equipment. He watched one dark-haired head in particular; the dark head in question was in a corner of the sandbox, crouched down and focused on some indeterminate object on the ground. But he was most definitely alone.   
Mycroft abandoned his book in order to focus solely on his younger brother. This excursion, this trip to the park, was supposed to help Sherlock socialize with other children his age. The little boy, however, seemed intent on being as solitary as humanly possible. As if sensing his brother's eyes on him, Sherlock's head whipped up and he made eye contact with Mycroft. He scowled defensively at being caught and, after a raised eyebrow from Mycroft, let out a bodily huff. Slowly and with an extreme amount of shuffling feet, Sherlock meandered over to an empty swing and sat down, kicking his feet in the sand and glowering at the ground.   
Mycroft heaved a weary sigh and bent his head back towards his book. Baby steps, he supposed. He spent about three pages deeply engrossed in Hemingway before he dared to look up again. This time he was met with the sight of Sherlock and another boy swinging side by side. There seemed to be some sort of conversation going on, although it looked admittedly one-sided. Mycroft saw Sherlock look disdainfully at the boy and give a short answer. The boy then gave a reply, which was met with stony silence and then a longer reply that had the boy jumping off his swing and running away. Sherlock hastily jumped off his own swing and rushed to Mycroft.   
"It wasn't my fault!" Sherlock looked at Mycroft with wide eyes and a slight pout.   
"What happened? Walk me through it," Mycroft instructed patiently.  
"Well I was sitting on the swing, being quite pleasant and approachable in my opinion, and this boy sat down beside me. He introduced himself and I introduced myself, and then he said that cowboys were the best fighters ever. But he's wrong Mycroft. It is clearly pirates who are the better fighters, and I informded him of that and he said I was wrong so then I told him all the reasons that he was wrong. And then he ran off in a huff. It was obviously because he was less smarter than me." Sherlock's speech sped up as he got more worked up, and the last three words seemed more like one.  
"Mmm. You informed him, Sherlock, and he was less intelligent, not less smarter. Are you sure that's all you said? No other comments about his person were made?"  
"No…"  
"You don't sound so sure. Would you care to try that answer again?"  
"Well, I may have mentioned that he eats his own boogers. But only 'cause it's true!"  
"As true as it may be, Sherlock, we don't deduce people verbally in front of them. It unnerves people. How would you like it if someone said something rude about you?"  
"It's not rude if it's true!"  
"And where did that notion come from? Certainly not from me."  
"Yes, well… It's still the truth." Sherlock could tell he was quickly losing ground.  
"As persuasive as that argument is, the fact remains that people don't like having their secrets laid bare. In future, you should endeavour to refrain from doing so. Now go back and try again." Sherlock huffed but did as he was told, scampering back to the sandbox. He situated himself back in his corner, bent once more over an indeterminate object. He had progressed to poking at it with a stick, his focus drawn determinedly to the ground. As Mycroft watched, a little girl skipped up to him and attempted to engage in conversation. The interaction lasted a little longer than the last one, but resulted in the girl running off with a look of slight consternation on her face. Sherlock scowled at her back but let her go.   
Mycroft was jolted out of his observation by a young voice. "Mycroft. Mycroft, hi!" Mycroft looked towards the source of the interruption.  
"Oh, hello John. How are you today?" The little boy in question had run up to the bench Mycroft was occupying and sat himself down on it.   
"Well, I'm outside aren't I? So I can't be too bad!"  
"It is indeed a beautiful day. Are you here by yourself?"  
"Harry, that's my older sister, was supposed to watch me, but she told me to come play at the park. We only live two blocks that way!" He pointed back the way he'd come.   
"Well, Sherlock is just over there if you would like to go join him. I'm sure he'd enjoy your company," Mycroft said, marvelling at the happy coincidence.  
"Cool, see you later!" He hopped off the bench and ran over to Sherlock.  
"Hi Sherlock!" John exclaimed once he had reached the dark-haired boy. Sherlock looked up at the light haired boy.  
"Hello." Sherlock focused once more on the object in front of him. John could see it was some sort of insect, but couldn't tell if it was alive or dead.  
"Watcha doing?"  
"Exa-examerning- looking at this insect."   
"Why?"  
"Because it's a rare breed."  
"Really? Because it looks like a dragonfly to me."  
"Well obviously you're not smart enough to realize the rarity of the breed." Sherlock sniffed disdainfully.  
"Oh yeah? And what's that?" John inquired, hunkering down beside Sherlock to get a better look at the insect in question.   
"See these lines here?" He pointed to horizontal lines on the dragonfly's abdomen. "Those indicate that this is a rare species."  
"No, I'm pretty sure I've seen those same lines on like a million other dragonflies."   
"Yes, well. Whatever. Why are you here anyway?"  
"I saw Mycroft and said hi and he said you were over here. And you looked lonely." Sherlock grunted, displaying his lack of worry at being alone. "Wanna go on the swings with me?"  
"I guess so."   
They wandered over and sat side-by-side, Sherlock kicking and dragging his feet in the dirt while John tried to swing as high as he could.   
"Come on, Sherlock, swing!"  
"I am."  
John dragged his feet through the dirt to stop himself. "You call that swinging? That's pathetic. What do you have, twig legs?" John teased. Sherlock heaved a put-upon sigh. "I bet you a chocolate bar that you can't swing higher than I can!"  
"Like you have a chocolate bar to bet with."  
"I do too!"  
"Fine, I will take your wager of one chocolate bar, probably the only one you posses."  
"Hey! I have like at least three!"  
"Are we going to have this contest or not?"  
"Yeah, yeah on the count of three. Ready? One, two, three!" Both children set off pumping their legs as hard as they could, trying to quickly gain power and momentum.   
"I'm winning!" John shrieked.  
"Are not!" Sherlock hollered in response.   
"Well you're definitely not winning, Sherlock, so that means I am." It was true; John, with his age general weight advantage, was swinging higher than Sherlock.  
"I believe we are at least equal." Sherlock said stubbornly.   
"Obviously we need a judge here." John slowed his legs, looking around the playground for a suitable judge.  
"We could get Mycroft," Sherlock suggested. He was sure that Mycroft would automatically side with him, given that he was his only brother.   
"Sure, let's go." John hopped off his swing and led the way towards the bench Mycroft was occupying, Sherlock hot on his heels. Mycroft, himself, was absorbed once more in his Hemingway novel.   
"Mycroft you have to come judge us!"  
"And what, exactly, am I judging?"  
"Who swings higher!" John declared.  
"There's a chocolate bar on the line!" Sherlock added.  
Without waiting for a response from Mycroft, both boys turned around and raced back towards the swing set, each claiming a swing.   
"Okay, you watching? Ready, set, go!"  
Mycroft watched them both intently, brow furrowed in apparent concentration.  
"Hmmm good form John… Oooohhhh nice technique, Sherlock! You know, I think you're both even."  
"But then what do we do?" John cried between huffs.  
"Who gets the chocolate bar?"  
"How about we call it a draw and I'll purchase you both a chocolate bar." Both boys stopped swinging.  
"Yeah!" John exclaimed in victory.   
"I guess that is efficient."  
"Sufficient, Sherlock." Sherlock scowled in response. "Alright boys, I believe it's time for us to go home. John, would you like us to accompany you home?"  
"You don't have to," John mumbled.  
"It would be our pleasure," Mycroft affirmed, ignoring Sherlock's grumbled protest. They headed towards John's house, with John in the lead. In no time, they had arrived at a small, old house that was tidy but worn out. It was the objectification of Mrs. Watson- tired, but with enough compassion to make up for it.  
"This is my house," John stated. "I should probably go in. Bye! See you later!"  
"Goodbye John. Next time we meet, I shall have your chocolate bar." Mycroft said formally.  
"Bye." Sherlock said, affecting a bored air. John turned around and went into his house, closing the door quietly behind him. Mycroft took Sherlock's hand, and they started on their own way home.  
"Today went well, don't you think?" Mycroft asked, shaking Sherlock's hand affectionately.  
"It wasn't terrible, I suppose."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys share a music lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't posted in a while. Life getting in the way :P Unbeta'ed, but enjoy anyway! Comment and kudos at your leisure!

A screech filled the small sound-proofed room. The three people in the room winced, and the dark-haired boy ripped the violin from under his chin.  
"It's useless," he grumbled.  
"You're doing fine," Smithson soothed.  
"I am not doing fine, as is evident by the hordrendous noise that just came from my instrument."   
"The horrendous noise, as you put it, was not as bad as you are building it up to be. You are four years old and already playing pieces usually played by people with three times your experience. A small mistake during rehearsal is really nothing to concern yourself about."  
"I'm not four until two weeks from now," Sherlock corrected, but there was none of the usual venom in his tone.   
"It's your birthday in two weeks?" John exclaimed. "You gonna do anything for it?"  
"Not that I had planned."  
John's mouth fell open in astonishment. "Not- Like, not anything? Not at all?"  
Sherlock blinked in confusion. "Well, Mummy will probably invite family over and I will have to endure many first and second relations pinching my cheeks and talking in high pitched voices."  
"As thrilling as this conversation is, boys, if we could resume our practice." Both boys mumbled assent and took up their positions once more. 

Twenty minutes later, the two boys emerged from the rehearsal room chatting amicably, their instructor trailing behind. They were animatedly debating the merits of peanut butter versus Nutella on a sandwich, with Sherlock defending the former and John defending the latter. Mycroft and Lestrade were in their usual position, seated side by side on the plastic waiting-room chairs. As the trio approached them, they over-heard the heated discussion that was in progress.  
"But you don't really think peanut butter is better than chocolate, do you?"  
"Of course it is! It is made of peanuts, which contain vitamins and protein that help your brain. So you're getting smarter every time you eat a peanut butter sandwich!"  
"Yeah, but chocolate! It's sweet and chocolatey! How could anything be better?"  
"Your argument is not valid. Therefore, peanut butter is the superior sandwich garnish."  
"Well let's see who doesn't get a bite of my chocolate bar next time I have one."   
"It's not that I don't like chocolate bars, I just don't like chocolate on my sandwiches." John's brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to retaliate. Mycroft thought now would be a good time to intervene.  
"Boys, that's enough."   
John turned pleading eyes on Mycroft. " You think chocolate is better, right Mycroft?" Mycroft paused for a moment and tried to figure out how best to skirt around the question.  
"Well, I think both of them are equally satisfactory."  
"No but really, you've gotta like one more than the other."  
"Yeah, Mycroft, which do you like better?" Lestrade cut in teasingly.  
"Well, I suppose, if I was forced to choose, I would tend to lean towards peanut butter over chocolate, Jonh." Both John and Lestrade gaped at the Holmes brothers.  
"You're both barmy," Lestrade stated. "You can't seriously like peanut butter over chocolate."  
"For sandwich toppings, I prefer savoury to sweet. Is it really so hard to comprehend?"  
"Yeah but- Why go with salty when you can have sweet? You always go for sweets." Lestrade's voice held a note of disbelief.  
"Well, I obviously do not fall in this category of the general "you". I almost always prefer salty or savoury, with the exception of cake. Then I prefer chocolate." Lestrade grinned.   
"So you're a chocolate cake kind of man? Good to know." Mycroft did not understand why this was a good thing to know, but let it slide.   
"I like chocolate cake too!" John piped up. "Well, I like chocolate everything really."  
"That is very good John. If we ever find ourselves needing to share a cake, we shall be set. Now, however, I do believe it is time we head home. Will your mother be picking you up, John?"  
"I think so, although it looks like she's running late again." John's face fell considerably and he shrugged his shoulders miserably. "It's okay though, I'm used to waiting." The small figure in front of him played on Mycroft's heartstrings, and he found himself offering a ride home to John.  
"Are you sure? I don't want to be a bother. I can walk home too, if mum's too late."  
"No, we insist. Right, Sherlock?" This was accompanied by a nudge from Mycroft.   
"I suppose, although I don't make a habit of giving rides to chocolate-preferers."  
"Preferer is not a word, Sherlock," Mycroft admonished. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes.  
"Are you done for the evening as well, Greg?" Mycroft asked, noticing that Smithson was putting away instruments in the other room and no other parents were in the waiting room.  
"Yeah, you guys were the last lesson today. Why?"  
"We would be willing to give you a ride home as well, if you desired one."   
Lestrade considered for a moment before consenting. The walk home would have been longer than he would want to walk in the rainy weather. "Just let me quickly pack up my things?"  
"That sounds perfectly reasonable. And in the meantime, John can contact his mother to inform her she does not need to pick him up." Mycroft pulled out his mobile and handed it to John after unlocking the screen and pulling up the "calls" feature. "Go ahead, John."  
"Thanks." He quickly punched in the number for his mother's ward at the hospital. "Hello? Yeah, it's John, can you ring me through to my mum? Thanks!" A pause. "Hi mum! No it's okay, I'm okay, it's just Mycroft offered to give me a ride home so you don't have to come pick me up. Yeah, they said it's no trouble. Yeah, mum. Yeah. Okay. See ya. Bye!" John hit the disconnect button and handed the mobile back to Mycroft. "She's about to get off at the surgery, so she might beat us home! She says thank you for giving me a ride." It was at that moment that Lestrade ambled over, school bag slung over his shoulder.  
"Ready to go?" Mycroft asked the assembled group. Murmurs of ascent came from all around. With a wave of his hand, Mycroft signalled to the group to exit the building. Lestrade took the lead, John and Sherlock following behind him and Mycroft taking up the rear.   
They all slid into the backseat of the car, John and Sherlock facing Mycroft and Lestrade.   
"So, how'd the lesson go today?" Lestrade asked the two boys sitting across from him.   
"Good!" John immediately piped up. "We practiced a lot. I think it's gonna be really good once we get better at it!"  
"Sherlock?" Mycroft prompted.  
"It was fine." Mycroft raised his brow at John.  
"Well, Sherlock made a mistake once, but I made tons, and I still thought it went well, so really it wasn't that bad. Plus, Sherlock's really good at violin." Sherlock scowled in response, but it didn't have the force and severity it normally did.   
The rest of the car ride consisted of Mycroft and Lestrade discussing their common interests, with John interjecting his opinions when there was opportunity. Sherlock sat and listened, but made no effort to partake in the conversation. They reached Greg's house shortly and all bid him a cheery farewell.  
"Thanks for the ride, lads. Really appreciate it. See you next week, Sherlock, John, Mycroft." Mycroft and John waved their farewell while Sherlock merely muttered "bye". Then they were off again, this time towards John's house. It was a quick five minute drive, as it turned out that Lestrade and John lived quite near each other. Mycroft insisted he and Sherlock walk John in, to ensure that he successfully made it inside his house.   
When they reached the door, John tried it and found it unlocked. He pulled the door open and they all entered.  
"John?" came the call from inside the house.  
"Yeah, mum, Sherlock and Mycroft dropped me off." Mrs. Watson came around the corner into the front hall and smiled at the trio standing at the door.   
"Thanks for dropping him off boys."  
"Our pleasure. If it is acceptable to you, we would like to extend an invitation to give John a ride home every Wednesday. It would require him waiting until Sherlock had finished his lesson on days that they don't have a joint lesson, but it would save you the trouble of having to make your way to the studio on those days."   
Mrs. Watson hesitated a moment. "Sure, if it isn't too much trouble, I might take you up on that. Thank you for the offer."  
"It's no trouble at all. We enjoy John's company and would love to assist you in any way we can. Now, I believe it's time we take our leave. Have a nice night, and see you next week."  
"Thanks, Mycroft and Sherlock. See you next week!"  
"Goodbye, John." Sherlock's lips twitched up in an imitation of a smile.  
Sherlock and Mycroft got in the car, and they pulled away from John's house and headed towards their own. And although he didn't say anything, Mycroft could tell that Sherlock was starting to grow attached to John.


	6. Sherlock's birthday: part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Sherlock's birthday!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed, as per usual. Was originally going to make this one chapter, but it was getting a little lengthy, so part 2 will be posted shortly. Enjoy, and as always, comment and kudos at your leisure!

“Baby, time to wake up.” A soft coo cut its way through a particularly pleasant dream Sherlock had been having where he and John had been performing an unending stream of particularly explosive experiments.   
Sherlock shrugged off the hand jostling his shoulder and burrowed deeper under his covers, curling himself around Redbeard. “Sherlock, sweetheart, you must get up,” the soft voice prompted once again. But it was not the usual voice that forced him to wakefulness.  
“Mummy?” he asked groggily, finally uncovering his head. His mother was perched on the side of his bed, already dressed and ready for the day.  
“Yes, dear, we got in late yesterday night and didn’t want to wake you. You didn’t think we would miss your birthday gathering, did you?”  
“No Mummy,” Sherlock replied obligingly, although it had been a niggling fear in the back of his mind.   
“Are you ready to get up, now?” Mummy asked.  
“Yes, Mummy.” Sherlock pushed off his covers and prompted Redbeard to jump down from the bed; his mother stood up as he automatically straightened his sheets the way Mycroft had taught him.   
“Now, I’ve already picked out your outfit for today,” she started, pulling a miniature suit-bag out of his closet. Unzipping the bag, she revealed a small black suit with a light grey pinstripe, and a light blue dress shirt. Sherlock, who protested clothes around the house on a daily bases, scrunched his nose at the fancy outfit. “Don’t wrinkle your nose, dear, it’s unbecoming.”   
“Must I wear it, Mummy? It is my birthday after all.”   
“That’s exactly why you must wear it. You must look presentable for the company.” Sherlock grumbled under his breath but did not press further, knowing his mother would inevitably win. She was more stubborn than he was, and twice as determined to always come out on top. “Now, Mycroft has informed me that your current favorite breakfast food is waffles with whipped cream, so we have had cook whip up a batch of waffles for breakfast. Doesn’t that sound lovely?” It did indeed sound quite appealing, so Sherlock nodded his head enthusiastically and led the way down the stairs and to the kitchen, his mother trailing gracefully behind him and Redbeard hot on his heels.   
“Good morning Sherlock, Mummy,” Mycroft greeted as they entered the small dining room. He was seated at the table and already dressed for the day in a plain brown suit. “Happy birthday.”  
“Good morning,” Sherlock answered, sitting himself expectantly at his place at the table. Father was already at the table, seated beside Mycroft with the morning paper held in his hands. Usually Mycroft had the paper spread in front of him and would read out the interesting and important bits to Sherlock; on days when Father was home, however, the elder would read the paper and once he was done, would hand it off to Mycroft who would read it quietly.   
As Mummy took her seat, the cook came in and placed a plate piled high with waffles on the table and put a bowl of whipped cream beside it. She left the room and came back a few seconds later with two different bowls of fruit salad.   
“Thank you,” Mummy said dismissively. “That will be all for now.” Mycroft reached out and took the plate of waffles in hand.   
“Father?” he offered the plate to their father first. Mr. Holmes forked out two waffles and waved his hand at Mycroft.  
“Thank you.”  
“Mummy?” Mycroft offered the plate next to her.  
“Yes, thank you, dear,” she said as she took one waffle. Mycroft leaned towards Sherlock and forked two waffles onto his plate before putting one on his own. He then reached for one of the bowls of fruit salad and dished out for both himself and Sherlock.  
“No, thank you.” Sherlock said as Mycroft dropped a cube of watermelon onto his plate.   
“Yes, Sherlock,” he countered back. “Three pieces of watermelon, two slices of apple and four slices of banana.”  
“Two pieces of watermelon, one slice of apple and two slices of banana,” he retorted.  
“Two pieces of watermelon, two slices of apple and three slices of banana. And if you eat it all, you can have another waffle.”  
“Deal,” Sherlock conceded. “Whipped cream?”  
“Yes, of course, how could I forget?” Mummy had already reached for the bowl of whipped cream.  
“Here, Mycroft, I can do it,” she offered.  
“Yes, thank you, Mummy,” Mycroft replied. Mummy proceeded to scoop an erroneous amount of whipped cream onto his waffle and dropped a couple of dollops on the side for Sherlock to dip his fruit in.  
“Thank you, Mummy.” Sherlock dug into his waffles with gusto, and drenched his fruit in whipped cream before deigning to eat them. He had cleared his plate in less than ten minutes, and was giving Mycroft puppy eyes.  
“You’re still hungry?” Mycroft ascertained. He was still working through his waffle, and both Mummy and Daddy had yet to finish theirs.  
“Yes,” Sherlock replied.  
“Fine, one more waffle.” He scooped one onto Sherlock’s plate and added some whipped cream on top.   
After they had all finished their breakfast, Sherlock was shooed upstairs to have a shower and get dressed. Mycroft, Mummy and Father stayed in the dining room, Father continuing to read the paper, Mummy doing the crossword and Mycroft fiddling on his phone.   
Sherlock came back down fifteen minutes later in nothing but his pants.  
“Sherlock Holmes, put on your trousers,” Mycroft bit out.  
“No, thank you.”  
“Please, Sherlock. We are to have family coming over, please put on some clothes.”  
“Why?”  
“No one wants to see you in your pants,” Mycroft reasoned.  
“I look perfectly fine in my pants, thank you very much.”  
“Be that as it may, you still need to get dressed. Come along.” He took Sherlock’s hand and led the reluctant toddler back upstairs to his room. “Mummy even picked out a special suit for you. Look.” Mycroft pulled down the uncovered suit and laid it on the bed. “Trousers first,” he said, handing them to Sherlock. “Then the shirt,” he handed Sherlock the shirt and helped him with the buttons. “Now the tie.” He held up three options. “Navy with bees, black with skulls or red and blue stripes?”  
“Bees.” Mycroft slung it around Sherlock’s neck and swiftly tied it.   
“And now for the jacket. John is coming over today, too. Are you excited?”  
“His company will make the day less dull, hopefully.”  
“And you’ll be polite all day?”  
“If I must.”  
“You must.” Sherlock huffed a put-upon sigh. “Oh come, it won’t be so bad. You’ll get presents, and cake. And everyone will dote on you. And you get a day with John and Redbeard. It won’t be so bad, yeah?” He rubbed one of Sherlock’s arms reassuringly. “Now come, you look sharp. You will be the talk of the town. Let’s go get ready to face the day.”  
“Thanks Mycroft.”  
“My pleasure. And if at any point today you get overwhelmed, come find me, alright?”  
“Yes, fine,” Sherlock said a little impatiently. Mycroft stood up and took Sherlock’s hand, leading him back down to their parents. They had moved to the sitting room and were now both situated on a couch, Redbeard at their feet.   
“Company should be coming soon,” Mummy commented. “Before they arrive, we’ll let you open one of your birthday presents.” Sherlock’s face lit up with excitement and he ran over to the small stack of gifts set on a side table. “You can pick whichever you would like to open.” Practically vibrating with excitement, Sherlock chose one with bright red wrapping paper and a gold bow. He brought it over to the foot of the couch and set it down, sitting cross-legged on the floor by his parent’s feet. Without any hesitation, he ripped off the bow and paper, revealing a box that contained a velvet pirate hat and an ornate plastic sword. Sherlock ran his hands reverently up and down the replica sword, stopping momentarily at the jewels set into the handle and admiring the way the fake blade shone.   
“Cool, thank you Mummy and Daddy!” he cried, jumping up and wrapping his arms around both of them.   
“You’re very welcome, dear. Now run and put them in your room before the company starts arriving.”  
“But, can I play with them?”  
“We’ll play with them later, I promise,” Mycroft pledged, intervening before an argument could erupt between parent and child.  
“Fine,” Sherlock puffed, slouching his way upstairs. He returned quickly downstairs and amused himself playing with Redbeard.

The doorbell rang half an hour later, signaling the arrival of the first guest. Mummy stood and went to answer the door, ever the polite hostess.   
“Ah, this must be John,” they heard from the front hall, and Sherlock quickly leapt up and ran to the front door, Mycroft and Redbeard close behind. “And Mrs. Watson, what a pleasure to meet you.”  
“Likewise,” Mrs. Watson replied, taking the proffered hand and shaking it. She was dressed in her hospital scrubs, clearly on her way to work. “And Sherlock, happy birthday,” she called to the boy who had just rounded the corner to the front hall.  
“Thank you, Mrs. Watson. Hello John.”  
“Hey Sherlock, happy birthday! I brought you a present!” He held out a small package. He was dressed in a black suit that looked like it had seen better days.  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said as he took the proffered box.   
“Put it with the others, dear, and you can open it later.”  
“Yes, Mummy.”  
“Alright, John, well I’d better get going. I’ll see you at eight, when I pick you up, yeah?”  
“Yeah, mum, thanks. Love you.”  
“Love you too. Be good.” She leaned down and kissed John on the top of the head. “Lovely to see you as always, Mycroft, and lovely to meet you Mrs. Holmes.”  
“A pleasure,” Mrs. Holmes replied.  
“We’ll see you later,” Mycroft added on with a smile. Mrs. Watson waved once more and then was out the door and gone.  
“John, I don’t believe we’ve met,” Mrs. Holmes bent down and offered her hand to John.  
“Hi, I’m John Watson,” he said, slotting his hand into hers.  
“And I’m Mrs. Holmes,” she replied, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you.”  
“You too!”   
“Would you boys like to play in the living room for a bit?”  
“Yeah, you can come meet Redbeard!” Sherlock took John’s hand and led him towards the living room.   
They thundered into the room and stopped short.  
“Father, this is John. John, this is Father.”  
“Hello John.”  
“Hello Mr. Holmes. It’s nice to meet you.”  
“You too, John. You boys play nicely, alright?”  
“Yes, Father.”   
Redbeard had run to their feet. “John, this is Redbeard.” Sherlock bent down and patted Redbeard on the top of the head, and John followed suit.   
“Mummy, can we go outside?” It was a promisingly sunny day for September, and the bright sun and green leaves beckoned to the boys.  
“Yes, dear, as long as Mycroft accompanies you and you don’t mess up your nice suit.”  
“Yes, Mummy,” Sherlock replied obediently. He dragged John outside as Redbeard jumped at their heels, Mycroft trailing behind after snagging a novel off the coffee table. The boys ran around outside, chasing Redbeard and playing fetch with him. Mycroft read in the shade of a tree, keeping a close eye on the two boys frolicking happily in the back yard.


	7. Birthday Party part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's birthday, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed, kudos and comment at your leisure. Thanks for reading!

Soon enough, other guests started arriving and trickled into the backyard to wish Sherlock a happy birthday.   
“Oh you’ve grown so much,” Aunt Mildred pinched his cheeks.  
“Looking fine, my boy,” Great Uncle Humphrey boomed.  
“Is this your new puppy?” Grandmama cooed.   
“Have your parents enrolled you in school?” Cousin Lucie inquired.  
“Can you read yet?” Grandfather bellowed.   
“Who’s your little friend here?”  
“This is John,” Sherlock informed his cousin Bessie.  
“And is he the only friend you’ve invited today?”  
“Yes, Grandmother,” he replied quietly.  
“Well, that’s nice dear. You don’t have many friends, do you?”  
Sherlock floundered for a moment, unsure of how to respond.   
“I think it’s time the boys went inside for some refreshments,” Mycroft intervened, putting his hand comfortingly on Sherlock’s shoulder.  
“Quite right,” Grandmother huffed. “Don’t want you boys overheating.”   
“Come along, Sherlock, John. Let’s go inside for a few moments.” And with that he lead the two boys inside the house and into the dining room, which had been filled with cool drinks and miniature hors d’oeuvres for the guests to nibble on before dinner. Different family members milled around, talking in small groups.  
“Both of you, take a glass of lemonade and you can each have three hors d’oeuvres if you’re hungry.” Sherlock and John hastened to comply, each grabbing a glass from the plate of pre-poured glasses and snatching three different hors d’oeuvres each, piling them onto tiny plates. They raced back to Mycroft, who was waiting for them in a secluded corner of the room. “Eat up, boys,” Mycroft encouraged. “Before the vultures swoop in to pinch your cheeks.” Both boys giggled in between stuffing miniature appetizers into their mouths.   
“Is that Sherlock?” gasped a high-pitched voice behind them. All three boys turned to see Great Aunt Therèse swooping down on them.

And so went the afternoon until, some time later, Mummy called everyone to dinner. They were all seated around the formal dining table in the dining room adjacent to the living room. This one was designated for social gatherings, and was lavish with ornate dinnerware and gilded embellishments. Polite conversation reigned around them, but the younger boys were left to converse with each other, which ended up with Mycroft breaking up what could have easily turned into the food fight of the century.   
Once all the plates were cleared, Mummy tapped her wine glass delicately with her knife to gain everyone’s attention.  
“Hello everyone,” she started. “As you all know, we are here today to celebrate Sherlock’s fourth birthday. I hope you have a great birthday and many more to come, my sweet baby boy. Happy birthday!” She lifted her glass in a toast and everyone else followed suit, cries of “happy birthday” and “hear hear!” being heard from the twenty-five family members around the table. The cook entered the room at that moment with the cake and set it down in front of Sherlock. It was a giant chocolate cake with three tiers, the entire cake covered in blue icing and adorned with toy pirate ships that were in the middle of an epic battle. Little toy pirates were scattered across the cake, some in the ships and some in the ‘water’. Sherlock’s eyes sparkled in wonder as the cake was set before him.  
“Awesome!” he cried.   
“What do you say to Mummy and Daddy?” Mycroft prompted quietly.  
“Thank you Mummy and Daddy! This is the best birthday cake ever!” There was laughter and applause from around the whole table, and the cook cut into the cake and started doling out pieces to all the partygoers, starting with Sherlock and ending with John. Both boys got a pirate ship and a little pirate figure set on their plates. In between bites of cake, they would stage pirate battles of epic proportions.  
“Aaaarrr, ye can’t get me,” John cried, waving his little pirate around.   
“Watch me!” Sherlock retaliated, taking his own pirate in hand and waving it in John’s direction before jabbing at John’s pirate. “Ha! Gotcha!”  
“No you didn’t, you missed my guy completely!” John jabbed his pirate at Sherlock. “I got you,” he reciprocated.  
“Please, that was barely a graze,” Sherlock scoffed. “Mycroft, what do you think?”  
Mycroft, who had quickly gotten used to being the deferred referee in the past several weeks, calmly diverted their attention. “How about you finish your cake, hmm?” Both boys dropped their pirates and dug into their cake, Sherlock muttering “this isn’t over yet” around a mouthful of cake. Both boys quickly cleaned their plates.   
“Time for presents!” their mother crowed after everyone had finished their slice of cake. “Let us retire to the living room.” Everyone got up and moved leisurely towards the living room, chatting quietly as they did. Sherlock took John’s hand and led him to the sofa, where they both perched patiently. When everyone had settled, Mummy went to the gift table, which was laden with gifts now, and picked John’s off the table.  
“Why don’t we start with John’s?” She handed the package to Sherlock, who took it and opened the card. Inside it was a drawing that consisted of two stick figures with blue circles over their heads.  
“It’s us as spacemen,” John explained quickly, blushing lightly.   
“Yeah,” Sherlock said with a smile. He opened the package and uncovered a chocolate bar and a package of glow-in-the-dark plastic stars.  
“The chocolate bar is from that day at the park, and the stars are to decorate your ceiling in your room.”  
“That’s very nice, John, thank you,” Mycroft said when Sherlock sat staring blankly at the present.   
“If you don’t like it…” John started hesitantly.  
“No, no!” Sherlock exclaimed. “It’s… It’s perfect, thank you.” He wrapped John in a speedy hug before handing his present to Mycroft to put back on the table.   
“And now one from Cousin Henry,” Mummy said, handing Sherlock another package. He efficiently unwrapped it and uncovered the first two books from the Harry Potter series along with a football.  
“Thank you, Cousin Henry,” Sherlock monotoned.   
And so went the rest of the present opening, with Sherlock amassing a grand total of twenty seven books, three different pirate hats, a space suit, a doctor outfit, five puzzles of varying difficulty, one pirate Playmobil set, one Lego City fire truck set, and six scholastic workbooks.   
Everyone left quickly after all the presents were open, saying their goodbyes to a rather overwhelmed-looking Sherlock. John was beside himself.   
“You got so many presents!” he blurted. “You’re so lucky!”  
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed inaudibly.   
“I think Sherlock’s a little tired,” Mycroft commented, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go upstairs to his room and put up the stars you got him?”  
“Can you come help us?” Sherlock asked hopefully.  
“Yes, I believe I can come up for a while,” Mycroft responded. Their parents had retired to the study to wind down from the night. Mycroft poked his head into the room. “I’m going to accompany the boys upstairs and keep an eye on them for awhile if I’m not required?”  
“Yes, that’s quite alright, Mycroft.”  
“Thank you.” He quickly turned around and ushered the boys upstairs before Mummy got it into her head to force their presence in the study. Sherlock clutched the small package of plastic stars in his hands and the three scurried up the stairs.   
“How shall we arrange them?” Mycroft asked.   
“I have some at home, and I just kind of stuck them all over my ceiling,” John suggested.  
“Can we do constellations, Mycroft?”  
“Of course. Do you have any in mind, Sherlock?”  
“Aquarius? Because it’s represented by water and pirate ships go on water,” he hastened to explain.  
“Sound logic, little brother. Any others?”  
“Orion, because he is an archer.”  
“Very good remembering, Sherlock, good job. I believe those two constellations will use the package up quite nicely. Now, where would you like to put them?” Sherlock contemplated his ceiling for a considerable amount of time before pointing right above his bed.   
“So that I can look at them when I have trouble falling asleep,” he explained.   
It took Mycroft standing on his bed to be able to reach the ceiling, which resulted in him putting up most of the stars in the constellation. Each boy got to place three stars by being hoisted into the air by Mycroft. When they were done, both boys flopped onto the bed, facing the ceiling. Mycroft slipped quietly out of the room.   
“Thank you for the present, John. It was the best one I received.”  
“Really? Uh, yeah, no problem Sherlock. It’s what mates do.”  
“And we’re… mates?”  
“Of course we are. You might even be my best mate.” Sherlock stared blankly at the ceiling as he processed this information.  
“Yeah?” John looked at him.  
“Yeah.” They both sat in a comfortable silence for a couple of minutes until the doorbell rang. “That’s probably my mum.”  
“Yeah.” They both rolled off the bed and headed downstairs. Mycroft and Mummy were already at the front door when they reached it.  
“Hey, John. Have a good time?”  
“Yeah mum, it was really cool!”  
“What do you say?” she said, nodding her head towards the assembled Holmes’.  
“Thank you for inviting me, Sherlock.”  
“And…?”  
“And… oh! Thank you for having me over Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft.”  
“Our pleasure,” Mrs. Holmes replied for the three of them. “You are welcome any time, John.”  
“Thank you! Have a good night Sherlock, and happy birthday!”  
“Thank you, John. Goodnight.” He smiled and waved as John led his mother down the drive towards their car, chatting happily about the “super cool cake” and all the presents Sherlock had received.   
“Ready for bed, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.   
“Yes, but can I have two stories before I go to bed?”  
“Yes. Would you like Mummy or Daddy to read you one?” Sherlock turned towards his mother.   
“Could you read one together to me?” He batted his eyelashes at his mother.  
“Well, let’s go ask your father but I don’t see why not,” she replied. Assent was given by the eldest Holmes and the four traipsed upstairs, where Mycroft swiftly got Sherlock into a pair of pajamas and tucked into bed.  
“Which one would you like us to read?” Mummy asked. Sherlock pointed to Mo Willem’s “That Is Not A Good Idea”. Daddy voiced the wolf and Mummy did the goose and the narration. Many four-year-old giggles were had, and even a few chuckles escaped Mycroft. When the story finished, Sherlock thanked his parents.   
“You are very welcome, my dear. Happy Birthday.” Mummy kissed him on the forehead.  
“Happy birthday Sherlock. Have a good sleep.” Daddy patted him on the shoulder and both parents made their retreat.   
“Alright, Sherlock,” Mycroft took a perch on the edge of his bed. “Ready for ’The Gruffalo’?” Sherlock nodded and settled down further in his blankets.   
“A mouse took a stroll through the deep dark wood…”   
By the end, Sherlock could barely keep his eyes open.   
“Goodnight, Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered as he planted a kiss on his forehead.  
“G’nite, Mycroft,” Sherlock mumbled. “Thank you for today.”

All was quiet in the deep dark wood.  
The mouse found a nut and the nut was good.


	8. The Concert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock perform together. Slightly angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed. Leave kudos/comments at your leisure, they are appreciated! Enjoy!

Sherlock paced nervously, tiny feet tap-tap-tapping against the floor. John stood beside him, fidgeting nervously with his score. They were situated in a small hallway at the rear of the stage, waiting for their turn to go on.   
“We’ll be fine,” John assured for the umpteenth time, albeit it a little shakily. “You’ll do great. You always do great.”  
“You’re going to jinx me if you keep saying things like that.”  
“Sorry, I meant that we’re going to blow it. Totally gonna be awful.”  
“Just. Stop. Talking,” Sherlock hissed testily.   
“Will do.” John made a zipping motion over his mouth. The silence stretched taut between them, both of them fidgeting nervously. Mr. Smithson materialized behind them.  
“Two more people ahead of you, boys. Are you ready?”   
“Yes of course we are why wouldn’t we be?” Sherlock snapped in one breath.   
“Good, good.” He wandered off to the side of the stage, watching one of his students perform on the piano from between the curtains. His hand waved distractedly, conducting the student from backstage.   
“My mum and sister are in the audience,” John threw out after suffering through a significant amount of silence.   
“Mummy and Daddy and Mycroft are supposed to be here,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft dropped me off, so he’s definitely here, and Mummy and Daddy said they were going to be here, so they must be here.”   
“Of course they are,” John assured him.  
“How can you know?” Sherlock sneered, mood switching. “You don’t know anything.”  
“Well that’s not true. I know tons of things. Plus, obviously your parents love you so they’re probably here and even if they’re not, it’s probably for a very important reason.”

“How do you know my parents love me?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John.  
“Well, I dunno, don’t everyone’s parents love them? Plus, at your birthday, they seemed like they liked you a lot. They got you lots of presents.”  
“Yes, I suppose. Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. Is it almost our turn?”   
“Yeah, I think we’re up next.” This speculation was confirmed when Mr. Smithson came up to them.  
“Alright boys, I’ll just get you to stand next to me here,” he led them towards the curtains on the side of the stage, “and when I tell you, go onstage and perform your piece, and then exit through the curtains on the other side of the stage. Got that?”   
“Yes, yes, we’re not idiots,” Sherlock huffed.   
“Very well then, on you get,” Mr. Smithson said, waving them forward. John and Sherlock nodded once to each other before Sherlock strode onstage, John following closely behind.   
They took their positions, John at the piano and Sherlock at the adjacent music stand. John played Sherlock a G, and Sherlock quickly tuned his violin, his hands flying from the fret board to the knobs at the head of the violin. When he was done, he nodded at John, who took a second to place his hands on the piano, inhaled deeply and started playing.   
The piece they played was a simpler rendition of a classical piece, with the piano leading in and the violin joining in three bars later. The two instruments intertwined seamlessly, switching of who was the prominent speaker. At times, the piano would plunk a story out note by note, to be joined by the melancholy hum of the violin. And then the violin would accelerate into a frenetic energy, climbing higher and higher before passing the storyline back to the piano. They crescendoed together and finished with both instruments playing in unison, belying a tragic end.   
When they had finished their performance, there was a beat of silence followed by thunderous applause from the audience. John stood up and moved to the side of the piano, standing beside Sherlock as they took their bows and moved offstage.   
“That was awesome!” John cried, barely able to contain his excitement.   
“Bravo, boys, congratulations!”  
“Thank you Mr. Smithson.”  
“Yeah, thanks!”  
“One more student performance, and then you boys are free to go,” he told them distractedly before making his way once more to the side stage. Sherlock grabbed his violin case from side stage and put his instrument away.   
“Did you have fun, Sherlock?”  
“I suppose. The applause was quite nice.”  
“It was awesome.”   
“Yes, I susppose it was awesome,” a smile was dancing on the edges of Sherlock’s mouth, and his eyes held a particular twinkle. They stood in companionable silence, feeling the after-glow of a performance well done settle into their bones.   
“Alright boys, you’re free to go meet your parents in the lobby,” Mr. Smithson tutted as he shooed them out of the backstage area.   
The boys quickly rushed through the backstage halls and out into the front lobby, eye scanning around for their parents.   
“John! Sherlock!” they heard Mrs. Watson call, and saw an accompanying waving hand.  
“Mum!” John cried. They pushed their way through the throngs of people and met up with Mrs. Watson, Harry and Mycroft.   
“Congratulations!” Mycroft called. “Very well done.”  
“Yes, you boys were truly wonderful.”   
“Good job, Johnny,” Harry said, ruffling John’s hair brusquely. The Watson trio moved slightly to the side to continue their conversation.  
“Where are Mummy and Daddy?” Sherlock asked, his stomach sinking. Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and knelt to his level.  
“Unfortunately they couldn’t make it, Sherlock. But they say they are proud of you nonetheless.” Sherlock dropped his violin case on the floor.  
“But this was my first concert. And my first duet. And they missed it.” Tears were trying to force their way out of Sherlock’s eyes; his voice was verging on quiet hysteria.  
“Yes, Sherlock. But you still did phenomenally. And they care very deeply about you.”  
“No they don’t. They don’t care about me at all! Otherwise they would have come. Why didn’t they come?” Tears were running freely down Sherlock’s face now, his breath coming in irregular gasps. Mycroft wrapped his arms tightly around his younger brother’s shaking shoulders, rubbing his back soothingly.  
“They are very busy, Sherlock, making money so they can give us everything we have.”  
“But I don’t want everything we have, I just want them to be here,” Sherlock mumbled into Mycroft’s shoulder.  
“I know, Sherlock, but to them money and status is what’s important. That’s something you will simply have to learn to accept. I will always be there for you, Sherlock. I will always protect you. Do you understand me?” Mycroft took Sherlock’s shoulders and looked earnestly into his eyes. Sherlock didn’t answer. “I was here tonight, alright? I even sat through all the other dull performances just to see yours.” Here Mycroft let a small smile escape. “You are very important to me, Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock managed to smile and sulk at the same time.  
“You are important to me too, Mycroft. When you’re not being annoying.” Mycroft pulled Sherlock into another quick embrace.   
“Alright, all good now?” Mycroft rubbed his thumbs across Sherlock’s face, wiping away the tears. Sherlock followed quickly with his hand, scrubbing away the remainder of the dried drops on his face.   
“Yes, of course.” Sherlock picked up his violin case. Mycroft stood up and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, taking Sherlock’s violin case from him in his other hand. They turned back to the Watsons, who were now laughing at something John had said.   
Mrs. Watson noticed them first. “If you boys would like to join us, we were planning on going to get ice cream?”   
“Yes! Ice cream!”  
“It seems we would love to join you,” Mycroft said drily with a small smile.   
“There’s this great place right down the street we can walk to that’s really good! They’ve got like three hundred trillion million flavours!”  
“It’s quite inpossible for them to have that many flavours,” Sherlock rebutted.   
“Well maybe, but there’s really a lot. And they’re all really good.” The group started walking out the doors of the theatre, chatting amicably amongst themselves. Mycroft slung his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, holding him close as he continued his conversation with John.  
“And they have chocolate. You can’t say you don’t like chocolate ice cream.”  
“Well it’s kind of dull, isn’t it?”   
“Well yeah, compared to other things, but it’s still a good, tasty ice cream flavor. A classic. At least, that’s what mum says.”   
“Everyone has their own opinion,” Mrs. Watson smoothly interjected into their conversation. “And everyone is entitled to their opinion. And mine’s that chocolate ice cream is very good.”  
“What about you, Mycroft? What kind of ice cream do you like?” John asked.  
“I prefer mint chocolate chip,” Mycroft replied. By this point, they had arrived at the ice cream shop in question. Mrs. Watson held the door for everyone while they trailed in. The shop was half-full, a mixture of teenage couples and young families conversing. The eternal cool weather kept the shop from being too full.   
“Okay everyone, up to the counter to order. John and Sherlock first, they’re the guests of honour.” John ran up to the counter and peeked his head over the top.  
“Hello miss! I would like a cookies and cream ice cream please.” This was directed at a teenaged brunette with braces.  
“Sure, sweetheart. One scoop or two?” John turned to his mom with big eyes.  
“He can have two. But just for tonight!”  
“Thanks mum! Two scoops, please!”  
“Sounds good. And you, dear?”  
Sherlock put his finger on his chin as he considered. “I’ll have one scoop of strawberry, one scoop of bubblegum and one scoop of triple chocolate.”  
“No, you’ll have two scoops. And only because John is.”  
“But Mycroft-“  
“No buts, Sherlock. Two scoops or none, your choice.” Sherlock growled under his breath and looked about ready to stomp his foot, but acquiesced.  
“Fine. One scoop of strawberry and one of triple chocolate.” The lady quickly dished them up and handed over the ice cream cones.   
“And what do say, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock scowled and turned back to the lady. “Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome, dear.” Sherlock turned back around and ran to join John.   
The others ordered their ice cream with considerably less fuss. Harry went to join the boys at the table. Mycroft turned to Mrs. Watson.  
“Ice cream is on us. I insist.”   
“Thank you, but that’s really unnecessary. We can pay our own way.” Mrs. Watson’s tone remained carefully polite.  
“I am aware, and did not mean to offend. It’s simply that John proves to be a companion for Sherlock where all have failed before. I would like to show my appreciation in one of the ways I know how. I am truly sorry if I provoked you; it was completely unintentional.” Mycroft ducked his head slightly to be able to better meet the shorter woman’s eyes.  
Mrs. Watson rubbed her forehead and closed her eyes. “I understand that, Mycroft. Really, I do. But you can’t just buy gratitude. Use your words to express gratefulness, or show it with actions that don’t involve monetary influence.” Here she raised a brow sardonically. “But since you offered so nicely, I will let you pay this time. But just this time, alright?” She shook her finger in his face gently but sternly. Mycroft smiled gratefully at Mrs. Watson.  
“Thank you.” He turned towards the woman and handed over his platinum credit card. She rang them through quickly and gave back the card along with Mycroft’s bowl of ice cream. Thanking her, he joined the others at the slightly sticky plastic table. He had only gotten one scoop, and quickly finished it. 

“Are you getting any of that in your mouth, Sherlock?”  
“Yes, Mycroft. A lot, in fact. And it’s very tasty.”  
“You could have fooled me. It seems as if the majority is ending up on your hands and face.” Mrs. Watson and Harry chuckled; John was too busy devouring his own ice cream in a similar manner to take serious note of the conversation happening around him. Both Sherlock and John finished their ice cream in a timely manner. Mycroft and Mrs. Watson set about wiping up their charges.  
“Sherlock, sit still please. Just let me get the ice cream off of your face.” Sherlock wiggled and wrinkled his nose, trying to evade the wipe that Mycroft had borrowed from Mrs. Watson. “Sherlock please, stop. Would you like to run around with a sticky face?”  
“Yes,” Sherlock answered, just to be difficult.   
“I beg to differ. Just one more spot. And now your hands.” Mycroft took Sherlock’s small hands in his and brusquely wiped them down. “There you go, all done.”   
They left quickly once the two boys were cleaned up. Mycroft had called their driver and their car was waiting for them outside.   
“ If you would like, we would be willing to give you a ride home.”  
“Thanks Mycroft, but we’re good. It will be good for us to walk off the ice cream. Maybe another time, though.”  
“Alright. Well good night then, Watson family.”  
“Good night, Sherlock and Mycroft.” John replied.  
“Goodnight John.”  
“See you next Wednesday.”


	9. Piratical Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock play pirates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one- more of an interlude than an actual chapter. My muse seems to have scurried off into the unknown, but hopefully will return soon to fill me with unending ideas and inspiration. Please feel free to leave kudos and comments- I eat them up!

“Avast ye mateys! Prepare yerselves to be boarded!” Sherlock waved his play sword in the air, his pirate hat sitting askance on his head. He pushed the hat up with his free hand. “Come on Mycroft, we have to defeat them!” They were crouched behind a tree in their sprawling backyard- in front of them, spaced at uneven intervals, were an accumulation of brooms, mops and other long-handled implements adorned in eye-patches and pirate hats: their foe.   
“Do you have a particular strategy in mind?”   
“Um, yes of course.” Sherlock was silent for a moment. “Attack… Yes, attack, both of us attack starting from the left and working our way across their ranks, taking on one man at a time together. That way we tire less quickly.”   
“Very good strategy Sherlock. Let’s go on your count.”  
“Alright, ready? One, two, three!” They both charged forward, Sherlock in the lead with Mycroft close behind. Sherlock let out a warrior cry as they approached the first enemy pirate.   
He fell upon the enemy valiantly, swinging his sword and thrashing at the enemy tirelessly. Once the broomstick had fallen over, Sherlock moved onto the next one.   
“Arr, we must be swift in our defeat!” Sherlock cried as he raced towards the next mop. They continued on that way, Sherlock making most of the attacks and Mycroft helping out on particularly stubborn foe. They were down to their second-last enemy when:  
“Oh no, I’ve been wounded!” Sherlock grasped his upper arm dramatically and staggered around, faking an injury.   
“You must fight on, defeat the last evil pirate! Brave, young warrior!” Mycroft scooped Sherlock up onto his hip and ran towards the last broom standing. Both boys swung their swords at the same time and the broom was knocked down with a resounding thud. The hat that had sat atop it’s head fell limply to the ground.  
“We’ve won!” cried Sherlock, bouncing up and down on Mycroft’s hip. “We are truly the greatest pirates of all time!” He pumped his sword arm in the air, narrowly avoiding hitting Mycroft in the eye.   
“Until the next foe we meet, of course.”  
“Yes, but for right now we are champions! And we deserve our just desserts. In the form of actual desserts, preferably.” Mycroft chuckled.  
“It is almost dinner time, so we shall ear supper and then we shall have a special dessert in light of our recent triumph.”  
“Chocolate cake?” Sherlock asked hopefully.  
“I have it on good authority that we have cookies in the shape of boats and skulls, and chocolate ice cream to go along with it. Will that be sufficient?”   
“Well, it’s not chocolate cake.” Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “Yes, it’s fine.”  
“That’s what I thought. In we go, my fierce pirate. Wash up and we’ll eat dinner.”  
“Scallywags don’t wash, they revel in dirt!”  
“Yes, well this particular scallywag will wash up or there will be no cookies.” Mycroft started walking towards the house, Sherlock still perched on his hip. Sherlock pouted for a minute before yawning and leaning his head on Mycroft’s shoulder.   
“Playing pirates with you is fun.” Mycroft turned his head and grazed a light kiss over Sherlock’s curls.  
“You’re welcome.”


	10. Hallowe'en- Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hallowe'en! Part 2 coming soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comment and kudos at your leisure, I adore every one!

Despair. Complete and utter despair. It was thick in the air as Sherlock sat on his bed.  
“It’s useless Mycroft. Everything’s ruined!” Sherlock wailed. Mycroft was currently holding a small white billowy shirt with an impressive blue stain all down the front.  
“What were you even drinking Sherlock? Anti-freeze?”  
“I may have been enjoying some Kool-Aid. It is not important. What is important is that now my pirate costume is ruined and Hallowe’en is tomorrow!”  
“Well maybe next time we’ll think twice before drinking brightly coloured drinks in our valued costumes, hmmm? Let’s run down to Ms. Williams and see if she can aid us in any way. Come along.” He took Sherlock’s hand in his free one and led him downstairs. Ms. Williams was in the kitchen, cleaning the silverware.  
“Hello boys,” she cooed when she spotted them in the doorway. “Can I get you something to eat? Drink? Some biscuits, maybe?”  
“I’ll have some biscuits!” Sherlock piped up. “Chocolate, please!” Ms. Williams got up to start preparing the biscuits for Sherlock.  
“That’s not the only reason we are here, Ms. Williams. Sherlock has something to ask of you.” Mycroft leaned against the doorway and gave Sherlock a pointed look.  
“Why do I have to do it?” Sherlock whined.  
“Because you are the one who needs the assistance, and you are also the one who created the problem in the first place.”  
Sherlock grumbled at Mycroft. “Fine. Ms. Williams, fix my shirt.”  
“Beg pardon, dear?”  
“Fix my shirt.” Sherlock held his hand out towards Mycroft, motioning towards the shirt.  
Mycroft glared at Sherlock. “Is that really how we ask for help, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock shot a poisonous look back at Mycroft before turning his gaze back to their housekeeper. “Please.”  
“Not good enough, Sherlock.”  
“Please, can you fix my shirt?” Mycroft gave the shirt to Sherlock so that he could hand it to Ms. Williams.  
“Let’s take a look here.” She took the shirt from his little hands. “Oh dear, what did you do?”  
“Had Kool-Aid for a snack yesterday.” Sherlock mumbled at the floor.  
Ms. Williams narrowed her eyes slightly at Sherlock. “I don’t remember giving you Kool-Aid with your snack yesterday.”  
“Yes, well I am four. I know how to open a fridge.”  
“But apparently not how to pour a drink,” Mycroft commented drily. “Hence the tragedy in progress. Will you be able to fix it, Ms. Williams?”  
She took the shirt from Sherlock’s tightly-clenched fingers and inspected the sizable stain all down the front.  
“A couple washes should make it right as rain. I assume you’ll want it for tomorrow?”  
“Yes, of course. Tomorrow is Hallowe’en, after all. I need it.”  
“Well then, I will have it ready for you by tomorrow.”  
“Thank you so much!” Sherlock squealed, throwing his arms around Ms. Williams waist.  
“My pleasure dear.” She extracted herself from Sherlock’s grasp. “Now, here’s your biscuits,” she handed over the plate, “and off you go. I’ll have this sorted for you, no problem.” Sherlock whooped and ran out of the room, chocolate biscuits in hand.  
“Thank you, Ms. Williams,” Mycroft said, crossing to her and gently kissing her on the cheek. “We really do appreciate it.”  
“It’s no problem dear. You go on and keep the little tyke out of trouble.”  
“Yes, Ms. Williams.”

*****

Sherlock’s white shirt billowed around him as he dashed into Smithson’s Music Academy. He tripped on his pirate’s boots but righted himself before opening the door. Mycroft followed more sedately behind, not in costume.  
“Sherlock!” Greg called from the reception desk as the two boys entered the building. “Looking sharp this evening.”  
“Of course I’m looking sharp, I’m a pirate! Avast!” He shook his violin case in the air in place of his sword.  
“You and John going trick-or-treating after your lesson?” Greg asked.  
“Yes, we are. We are going to get loads and loads of candy because we are so fearsome everyone will give us their candy.”  
“Well, you can’t argue with that logic. Is Mycroft taking you boys out?” This was accompanied with a look to Mycroft.  
“Yes,” the brothers answered in unison.  
“Mummy and Daddy are out of town and we arranged it all with Mrs. Watson,” Mycroft further explains, “so it falls to me to provide the young with high sugar levels.”  
“Not a bad gig, could be worse.”  
“Says the man who doesn’t have to deal with two children high on sugar.”  
“Touché.” Greg chuckled. “You got any plans after that?”  
“Trying to get this gremlin to bed and then making sure he stays there. Do you have any special plans tonight?” Mycroft asked politely, sure that Greg had parties lined up throughout the night.  
“I was invited to a couple parties, but nothing I have any burning desire to go to.” Greg was hoping Mycroft would invite him to tag along with them.  
At that moment Mr. Smithson interrupted them by opening the door and releasing John from the practice room. A pirate shirt, a tall pair of boots and a tri-corn hat replaced John’s usual attire.  
“Mycroft! Sherlock! Ready to go trick-or-treating?” John was practically bouncing off the walls with excitement.  
“Sherlock has his lesson first, John, and then we’ll go out,” Mycroft reminded him.  
“Yes, I know,” John replied as Smithson ushered Sherlock through the door. Mycorft sat down in a chair and John sat down next to him. And swung his legs aimlessly in the air. Then he stood up and walked to the counter where Greg was inputting numbers into the computer. He peeked over the edge. “Watcha doing?”  
“Boring work stuff.”  
“Why?”  
“Because that’s how I make money, mate.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I need money.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I like to buy stuff.”  
“Why?”  
“Look, mate, I don’t remember you usually being this annoying.”  
John was unperturbed. “Are you going trick-or-treating tonight?”  
“I wasn’t planning on it, no.”  
John looked appalled. “But you have to go trick-or-treating. You can come with us.” John glanced at Mycroft for confirmation.  
“Yes, of course Greg may accompany us if he so wishes. Personally, I would love to have another set of eyes and hands ready to deal with two hyper goblins.”  
Greg chuckled in response. “Well, I would love to accompany you gentlemen on your candy-pillaging adventures. I’ll just text Mum after work to let her know what’s happening.”  
“Yay!” John shouted.  
“But that means I’ve got to work extra hard on this work to get it done in time, so how about you go pester Mycroft for a bit, yeah?”  
“Okay.” John scurried back to Mycroft. “How much longer, Mycroft?”  
“ Well Sherlock’s lessons usually last around forty-five minutes, depending on his patience level on any given day. We’ve been sitting here for…” Mycroft checked his watch, “about three. Do you know what forty-five minus three is?”  
John furrowed his brow. “I haven’t really learned that stuff in school yet.”  
Mycroft saw a teaching opportunity. “Okay, well, do you know how to count backwards?”  
“Sure.”  
“And you know how to count to forty-five?”  
“I know how to count to 1000!”  
“So if we go from forty-five and we count back three, what would that be?”  
“Forty-five, forty-four, forty-three, forty-two?”  
“Very good John. So we have forty-two minutes left to wait.”  
“Is that a long time?”  
“I’m sure it’ll fly by.”


	11. Hallowe'en- Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go out trick or treating!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed. Leave kudos and comments at your leisure- I love 'em!

It did not fly by, but time progressed quickly enough that John wasn’t too irritating. 

When Sherlock was released, it was to much cheering by both young boys. “Thank you, Mr. Smithson, we’ll see you next week!” Mycroft called over his shoulder as John and Sherlock ran out of the door. Greg followed them at a more sedate pace. The four boys piled into the car and were quickly whisked to the Holmes’ residence where the younger bots collected pillowcases while the older boys collected Redbeard.   
“Sherlock, what is Redbeard wearing?” When Mycroft and Greg found the puppy, he was in the drawing room, laying with his head on his paws. On his head was a little pirate hat and a scarlet shirt covered him from neck to tail.  
“A pirate costume, what else?” Sherlock called from his bedroom, where they were collecting pillowcases.   
“But where did you get it?”  
“Ms. Williams is shockingly easy to persuade,” Sherlock replied as he and John strolled into the living room. “Can we go now?”   
“Yes, of course,” Mycroft answered. He led the party towards the door, picking up his umbrella from the stand on his way out the door and handing the dog leash to Greg.   
“An umbrella? Really?” Greg asked, hooking the leash into Redbeard’s collar.  
“You never know when it will rain. We do live in England, after all.”   
Sherlock and John ran down the front stairs and to the sidewalk, veering left to race to their next-door neighbour’s house. Around the neighbourhood, children dressed in custom made costumes raced back and forth, the majority accompanied by non-relative chaperones.  
“Trick or treat!” The boys called when they reached the front door. Voices were heard from behind the door before it swung open.   
“Hello, what scary pirates! And a faithful dog pirate, how cute!” cooed a woman in high heels and a sparkly black dress. “Would you like some candy?”  
“Yes please!” John cried. The lady reached over to a side-table in the front entrance and dropped a gold, foil wrapped sphere into the two awaiting pillow cases.   
“Have a good night, boys!” The door closed and John and Sherlock turned to Greg and Mycroft.   
“On to the next house!” Sherlock cried, leading the charge to the next front door. John looked confusedly in his bag before following Sherlock a step behind.  
“Trick or treat!” both boys shouted enthusiastically at the next door. Loud bass was thrumming through the door and it washed over John and Sherlock as the door was pulled open by a middle-aged man who swayed on his feet.  
“Hello boys!” He hollered, his words slurring slightly together. “What lovely pirate costumes you have. Getting all the ladies, hey?” He reached into the bowl he was holding and pulled out a couple of vibrant blue and red spheres. “There you go, candy for all.” He patted each boy on the head and waved blearily at Greg, Mycroft and Redbeard before closing the door. As John and Sherlock made their way down the front stairs, John opened his bag and peered inside.  
“What are these candies?” he asked as he squinted in the dim light. He pulled out one of the round objects and held it up in the air. “Is this even candy? It’s so… fancy.”  
“Of course it’s candy, that’s a Lintdor Chocolate. Have you never had any?”  
“No, we just eat normal chocolate.”  
“There is no such thing as abnormal chocolate, John. Don’t be silly.”  
“But what about Smarties, or Coffee Crisp?”  
“Yes, I eat those too.” Both boys were getting frustrated and confused.  
“It’s just posh candy,” Lestrade explained, stepping between the two boys and putting a hand on either’s shoulder. “It’s just as sugar-filled as any chocolate bar, John.”  
“But what about the other chocolates? Crunchies? Do you think we’ll get any of those? They’re my favourite!” John looked positively distressed. Lestrade and Mycroft made eye contact over the younger boys’ heads.   
“I’ve got a solution.”

After hitting the rest of the block in Sherlock’s neighborhood, the boys found themselves piled in a family car and headed towards John’s and, by extension, Lestrade’s neighborhood. This area was more significantly populated by groups of children dressed in off-the-rack costumes, giggling and racing from one house to the other, various chaperones following more sedately on the sidewalk.   
“Thank you, you can let us off here. Please return in two hours,” Mycroft said, addressing the driver. The driver gave an affirmative and pulled away from the sidewalk.   
“Alright boys, off we go,” Greg said, addressing the two small pirates. They had been dropped off at Lestrade’s house and were planning on making their way to John’s on foot.   
They set forth, making their way up Lestrade’s walk to his front door.   
“Trick or treat!” they cried. The door opened to reveal a woman in her mid-forties, graying brown hair loose around her face and a smile lighting up her eyes.  
“Hi there, boys, you both look very fearsome tonight! You must be John and Sherlock, and of course Mycroft.” Greg looked embarrassed and Mycroft shot him a questioning look.   
“Don’t forget about Redbeard!” John piped up.  
“Oh yes, of course not! How cute he looks!”  
“Yeah, okay mum just give them the candy,” he said fondly, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. She reached into her bowl and took out a fistful of candy, dumping a giant handful in each boys bag.  
“Thank you!” John exclaimed happily.  
“Yes, thank you!” Sherlock said with matching enthusiasm.  
“Time to go, boys. I’ll see you later, mum.”  
“Yes, yes, you boys have fun and don’t stay out too late!”  
“Okay mum, bye!” Greg started ushering the others away from the house.  
“It was very nice to meet you, Mycroft!” she called at their retreating backs.  
“Thank you, and you as well,” he called hastily over his shoulder. He kept looking at Greg in a calculating way, but didn’t say anything until the younger boys had reached the next house.  
“What did she mean by ‘of course, Mycroft’?”   
“Oh, you know, just mum being mum. She didn’t mean anything by it.” Greg stuck his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunching protectively by his ears.  
“Really? Because language like that leads me to believe that she’s heard of me before. Quite a lot.” There was a teasing glint in Mycroft’s eye.  
“Oi, alright you. So maybe I told her about the interesting bloke with the strange brother who comes in every Wednesday and sometimes gives me a ride home. Is that really so strange?” He nudged Mycroft’s shoulder with his own, careful of the puppy constantly getting underfoot.  
“Did you say I’m interesting?”  
“Yeah, mate, of course. One of the most interesting blokes I know. Why, do you not often get that?” Mycroft looked down and tucked his own hands in his pockets.  
“Not really, no.”  
“What do you usually get?”  
Mycroft hesitated a moment. “It’s irrelevant.” There was silence for a few seconds before the two pirates scurried up to their chaperones.   
“Look how much candy we got!” Sherlock exclaimed in wonder.  
“So, good idea coming to this neighbourhood?” Greg asked with a raised brow.  
“I suppose it was accessible.”  
“I think the word you’re looking for is acceptable.”  
“Not important. Onto the next house!” The boys ran to the next house, waiting behind a group of ghosts and witches that had reached the door first.  
“So what did you tell your mother about me?” Mycroft prodded further.  
“Like I said, just how interesting you and Sherlock are.” He paused a moment and slid his eyes over to Mycroft. “And how lucky I was to meet you guys, I suppose.” His face was burning red. Mycroft could feel his face heating as well, but chose to ignore the scarlet creeping up his face.  
“Ah,” he said intelligently. They moved silently down the sidewalk as their young charges raced to the next house.  
“So…” Greg started awkwardly. “Do you have a girlfriend?”  
“I- No, I don’t. Not really interested.”   
“In relationships?” Mycroft hesitated a moment.  
“In girls.” He left it at that.  
“I see. Me neither… too.”  
“That was very eloquent,” came a voice from in front of them. Sherlock was glaring up at them from under his fringe of curls.  
“Don’t you trouble makers have more candy to scoop up?” Greg asked.  
“Plunder, you mean,” John corrected.  
“Yes, of course, my mistake. Go on, only a couple of houses left to go.” The boys’ pillowcases were almost full, and their feet were starting to drag, although they were determined not to show their fatigue. As the boys scurried away to the third-last house, Greg casually brushed his hand against Mycroft’s.   
“So, boys then?” Greg asked hesitantly.  
“Until recently, I wasn’t really interested in anyone,” Mycroft murmured softly. Greg hesitated for a moment, trying to decide whether Mycroft was implying that he was interested in Greg. Steeling himself for rejection, Greg again reached out but this time slipped his free hand into Mycroft’s. The taller boy stiffened but didn’t pull his hand away. Greg noticed their charges making their way to the next house and pulled gently at Mycroft’s hand, urging him down the street.   
“Never met anyone interesting enough to capture your attention?” Greg joked.  
“Not really, no,” Mycroft replied, honesty colouring his voice. “Not until now,” he added after a pause.  
“Well, I’m flattered,” Greg shot back at him. John and Sherlock had reached the Watson residence so Greg and Mycroft walked up the path to the front door.  
“Hello, Mrs. Watson,” Mycroft greeted.  
“Hello Mycroft dear, and Greg, how are you boys?”  
“Good, thanks, and you?” Greg replied.  
“I’m very well thanks. Would you boys like to come in for a minute?”  
“Why are you holding hands?” John blurted. Mycroft liked down at their joined hands.  
“Well, John…” he started, at a loss for words.  
“John Watson, you do not ask questions like that!” Mrs. Watson scolded gently.  
“Are you in love?” he soldiered on.  
“I- well,” Greg started stammering.  
“I think we’d best be getting home, it’s getting late, regretfully,” Mycroft interjected, dropping Greg’s hand. Sherlock directed a pout at his older brother.   
“Just a couple minutes?” Sherlock pulled out his puppy dog eyes.  
Mycroft hesitated, but relented after a minute of staring down his little brother.  
“Fine, go compare your stash with John, and then we head home. We will be giving Greg a ride home as well.”  
“Fine.” The two pirates ran to the living room and emptied their pillowcases on the floor, quickly sorting through the candy for things they liked, disliked and hadn’t ever tried. Greg and Mycroft watched over them, quelling any arguments before they began. Mrs. Watson had moved to the kitchen to finish her tidying.   
“I’ll give you two of my Crunchie’s for a Twizzlers,” Sherlock bartered with John.  
“Deal!” They exchanged the candy. “You’ve never had Kit Kat before?” John asked in amazement, looking at Sherlock’s hadn’t ever tried pile.   
“No, are they good?”  
“They’re amazing! Try one now!”   
Sherlock looked skeptically at John before complying. He ripped the wrapper off without ceremony and shoved one of the pieces in his mouth. His eyes widened as he crunched the piece and swallowed. “Wow, that is good!” Meanwhile, John had taken a Crunchie and devoured it while keeping his eyes on Sherlock. John swallowed his own mouthful of candy and nodded.   
“Yeah, they’re really good. Anything else you want to trade?”  
“No, I think I’m good,” Sherlock said, picking up one of the Lintdor chocolates and popping it in his mouth. John picked a Twisted candy bar and ate it.  
“Hey, you little sugar munchers, slow down or you’ll get a belly ache!” Greg warned them. Sherlock picked up another Kit Kat bar and ate it, looking defiantly at the older boys. “It’s your stomach,” Greg shrugged.  
“And on that note, I believe it’s time we departed,” Mycroft commented. “Come along, Sherlock.”  
“I’m not tired,” he replied.  
“Well bully for you, but we still need to head home.”  
“I’m never going to be tired. No need to sleep ever again. Especially not with all this wonderful chocolate to eat.” Mycroft briefly closed his eyes, gathering strength for the on-coming battle.  
“I disagree, but we will figure that out later. For now, let us away.” Sherlock quickly gathered his candy and put it back in his pillowcase, scrambling up from the floor and making his way towards Mycroft.  
“Fine, but I will win,” he insisted, taking Mycroft’s proffered hand. “Bye, John.”  
“Bye, Sherlock!”   
Mrs. Watson stuck her head out of the kitchen. “Don’t forget to invite them to your birthday!”  
“Oh! Yeah, it’s my birthday next week and I’m having a party. Saturday, from 2 to 6. Please come! All of you!”  
“Oh, John, I don’t-“ Greg started.  
“I wouldn’t mind the extra set of adult eyes,” Mrs. Watson called from the kitchen.  
“Well, okay.”  
“And of course you’ll be coming too, Mycroft,” Mrs. Watson’s voice drifted towards them once again.  
“Yes, of course. If only to keep an eye on Sherlock.”   
Mrs. Watson chuckled good naturedly. “All right, we’ll see you then if we don’t see you sooner. Goodnight boys.” They all bid the Watsons’ goodnight and entered the car that was waiting for them.   
“Did you have a fun night?” Greg asked Sherlock when they had all settled in and had started moving.  
“Yes! I love candy! Halloween is awesome!”  
“Good! I’m glad to see you so enthusiastic.” They pulled up to Greg’s house as Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.   
“Alright, I’ll see you lads later.” He reached over and quickly squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “Goodnight!” He exited the car and waved once more before entering his house.   
“You guys are gross,” Sherlock said without preamble.   
“Thank you for that comment, it is very valued.” The brothers sat in silence for the rest of the ride, Sherlock’s feet tapping on the floor of the car the entire ride.  
“Time for bed,” Mycroft said once they got inside the house and he let Redbeard off his leash.   
“No!”   
Mycroft bit back a growl of frustration. “Yes, Sherlock. No arguments. Put your candy in the kitchen and off to bed we go.”  
“I’ll put my candy in the kitchen if you’ll let me eat three pieces, but I’m not going to bed ever!”  
Mycroft decided to choose his battles. “One piece, and at least have a bath. Your face is sticky from all the candy you’ve eaten, and then lay in bed, even if you won’t sleep.”  
“Two pieces of candy.”  
“Fine. Pick your two pieces of candy and I’ll take the rest to the kitchen while you go up and choose your pajamas.”  
Sherlock reached into the bag and drew out one Crunchie and one Galaxy Caramel.  
“Alright, off you go upstairs, I’ll be by shortly.” Sherlock unwrapped his Galaxy Caramel as he trudged up the stairs. Mycroft quickly ran to the kitchen and stored the candy high up in a cabinet, hoping to deter Sherlock from devouring the candy in one day. Making his way quickly upstairs, he found Sherlock in his room, bouncing on the bed.  
“Am I interrupting?” he asked sarcastically.  
“Nope, I was just waiting for you. I chose the cowboy pajamas.”  
“A good choice, as always.” 

There was an inordinate amount of splashing and barking that happened during the bath, and both Mycroft and Redbeard ended up more wet than usual.  
“Okay, I’ll read you one story tonight. What would you like to hear?”  
“I’ll have The Cat in The Hat,” he said after a moment. He snuggled further down into his blankets, curling around Redbeard. “But we’re not going to sleep.”  
“Alright.” He got the book down from the bookshelf and perched on the edge of the bed. “The sun did not shine, it was too wet to play, so we sat in the house, on that cold, cold wet day…”

Sherlock was asleep after the first three pages, finally crashing after the sugar high. His soft breath ruffled Redbeards fur; Redbeard’s leg twitched every now and then as he chased rabbits in his dreams. Mycroft took a moment to take in the peaceful tableau.  
“Goodnight.”


	12. John's Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's John's birthday party! Sherlock is forced to interact with dullards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed, but I try my hardest. Leave kudos and comments, please!

“I’ve changed my mind, I want to go home.” Sherlock clung tightly to Mycroft’s hand, glaring at the press of bodies around him. It was John’s fifth birthday and it seemed he had invited every single human being under the age of eight to his party and had crammed them all in to his tiny house.   
“Sherlock, you don’t really want to go home. Don’t be ridiculous, it’s John’s birthday. As his friend, the least you can do is stay at his party. And look, there he is now. Hello John, happy birthday.”  
“Yes, happy birthday, John. I got you a present.”  
“He insisted on wrapping it himself,” Mycroft added, much to the amusement of Mrs. Watson.  
“No one else would have been able to do it properly,” Sherlock explained haughtily. He handed the clumsily wrapped package over to John, who shook it excitedly.   
“Thanks!” He took it over to another table that held a sizeable pile of gifts. “We’re about to start a game of football. Come outside, yeah?”  
“Alright.” John grabbed his coat and slung it on, taking Sherlock’s hand and dragging him outside.   
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Mycroft offered to Mrs. Watson, who was flitting around the house in a mild state of panic.  
“What? Oh no dear, I’ve got one of the other boys’ mums helping me in the kitchen. If you could just go outside and watch the tykes that would be very helpful. Greg should be by soon, he can help you.”  
“Okay.” Mycroft headed outside. The assembled boys seemed to have figured out two teams and had started playing. Most of the boys were running around the yard chasing after the football, with the exception of Sherlock. Instead, Sherlock had positioned himself in a corner of the makeshift football pitch and was trying to make himself as small as possible. Mycroft shook his head but didn’t say anything, happy that his brother was at least among the masses for a while. It was good for him to socialize, even if that meant him standing in a corner while his peers charged around him. 

It was another five minutes of Mycroft keeping an eye on the rowdy boys before a hand slipped surreptitiously into his. “Hello,” a voice hummed in his ear. “You’ve been left in charge of the boys, I see?”   
Mycroft prided himself on being aware of his surroundings at all times and therefore was taken by surprise at the first physical contact.   
“Ah, Greg. Yes, I have indeed been left with the children. Thankfully, there have been no incidents as of yet.”   
“Good to hear. This is okay, yeah?” He swung their hands to indicate what he meant.  
“Yes- yes of course,” Mycroft hastened to reply. He found it quite comfortable holding Greg’s hand. They both turned back to the football match in time to see John grab Sherlock’s hand.  
“Come on, Sherlock, you gotta chase the ball!” he cried. Sherlock followed half-heartedly behind, towed along by their joined hands. John briefly let go of Sherlock’s hand to chase the ball and kicked it at Sherlock, who happened to be standing right in front of the opposing teams net. “Kick it!” cried John when the ball reached Sherlock. Sherlock, looking panicked, swung his leg wildly and managed to get the ball back in John’s direction, who kicked it into the net.   
“Gooooaaaaallllll!!!!!” John yelled, running around the pitch a few times before slinging his arm around Sherlock and jumping up and down. “And you assisted! Wooo!!”  
Sherlock looked a little off balance as he smiled at John’s exuberance. The game recommenced and as the other boys started chasing after the ball again, Sherlock snuck over to where Greg and Mycroft were standing.  
“I think that’s enough activity for one day,” Sherlock said. “We can go home now.”  
“No,” Mycroft aid sternly. “We are not going home. You like spending time with John, don’t you?”   
Sherlock scowled. “Yes, I suppose, but I do not like spending it with these barbarians.”  
“That’s a new word,” Greg stated drily.   
“He learned it in one of his pirate books,” Mycroft supplied.   
“Look mate, you can’t go home, it would hurt John’s feelings.” Sherlock looked unconvinced, so Greg knelt down to be at eye level. “I know you don’t understand it, okay? But I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that if you left now John would be sad. He thinks your friendship is very important, Sherlock, and sometimes friendship means attending events you really wish you weren’t at. Are you being physically or emotionally harmed?”  
“Well, I did have to run around. And kick things. That could be physically harming.”  
“Sherlock…” Mycroft warned.  
“Fine. No, I am not being harmed.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
“You know, you’re too young to be bitter enough to roll your eyes,” Greg told Sherlock, ruffling his hair. “Now come on, let’s go play some footy!” and with that he scooped Sherlock up by wrapping his arms around his chest and carried him onto the pitch, a battle cry emitting from his mouth.   
John cheered at the new addition and quickly claimed Greg for his team. Then the game started in earnest with John passing the ball quickly to Greg, who put Sherlock down and whispered in his ear “kick the ball that way!”  
Sherlock didn’t have time to think and blindly kicked the ball towards where he thought the net was. A roar built around him as he was surrounded from all sides by cheering children.  
“Another goal to us!” he heard John cry off to his side as Greg rubbed his back from behind.   
“Good shot, Sherlock. That was brilliant.” The ball was put back in play and all the players ran off down the other end of the pitch, following the ball’s path. Sherlock now lagged behind but dutifully made his way to the other end of the pitch, only to turn around and go back the way he came when one of John’s teammates stole the ball. Sherlock shot a disgruntled look at Mycroft, who was safely stationed on the side lines.  
The game ended a few minutes later when John’s mum came outside and called them all in for cake. Various cries of “Cake!” were heard as a stampede of children crammed into the small Watson household. As all the little bodies situated themselves in the living room, plates laden with cake and ice cream were passed around and consumed in record time. The adults in the room, which consisted of Greg, Mycroft, Mrs. Watson and one other mother, then went around and cleaned the messiest children, passing around napkins to the rest.   
This meant that Greg ended up crouched in front of Sherlock, with Mycroft knelt beside him in front of John and Mrs. Watson and the other mother dealing with two other chocolate-covered tykes.   
“I do not need to be wiped down like a baby, I am perfectly able to do it myself.”  
“Agree to disagree, mate. You are messier than a pig in summer.”  
“That was the most barbaric thing you could have said.”  
“You’re really liking that word, aren’t you?”  
“It is the right word for the situation.”  
“Whatever, Sherlock.” Greg rolled his eyes and continued wiping his face clean.  
“That cake was really good,” John said from beside them.  
“Yes, but did you have to enjoy it quite so thoroughly?” Mycroft asked as he scrubbed a stubborn spot of chocolate off his cheek.  
“How else am I supposed to enjoy it? You gotta eat it all, Mycroft, or it just isn’t the same.”  
“I’ll take your word for it, John.”  
“Time for presents!” Mrs. Watson cooed from behind John. “John will draw a name out of the bowl and will open that person’s present!” Mrs. Watson held the bowl to John while Mycroft and Greg moved to the side. John pulled out the first name.   
“Tommy.” The boy in question scampered up and grabbed a red gift bag with purple tissue paper. John tore out the tissue paper and pulled out a Lego Duplo Knight Tournament set.   
“Cool, thanks Tommy!” John looked to his mum for the bowl and drew a name.  
“Sherlock!” Sherlock got up and collected his lumpy package that was more tape than wrapping paper. He handed it to John. The card on top had a hand-drawn picture of the two boys on horses.  
“In keeping with your theme from my birthday card. We’re cowboys.” John took a moment to examine the card.  
“That’s so cool! Here, hold it while I open the present.” Sherlock accepted his craftsmanship back as John tore into the wrapping paper. “The Highway Rat,” John read out the title of the book.  
“It’s one of my favourites,” Sherlock explained.  
“And Monopoly Hotels. This is awesome! We can play this all the time!” John flung his arms around Sherlock. “Thanks, Sherlock. This is the best!”  
“You’re welcome,” Sherlock mumbled shyly, returning the hug. He then slunk back towards Mycroft and Greg when John moved on to the next present.  
“Good job, Sherlock,” Greg patted him on the shoulder. No response was given, but Greg thought he saw a small smile grace Sherlock’s face.

Once John’s plethora of presents were opened, John and his guests milled around, playing and waiting for parents to come pick them up.   
“John, let’s go play Go Fish,” Sherlock said, pulling on John’s arm. John, who was playing Lego with three of his friends, looked at Sherlock like he was insane.   
“No, Sherlock, I’m playing Lego. Sit down, you can play with us.”  
“But I don’t want to play with them, I want to play with you.”  
“You can play with me, but you have to play with the others, too.”   
Sherlock stood slightly apart from the group of boys sitting in a circle. “But John…” he whined   
“Sherlock, look, you’re my best friend, but these guys are my mates too. That means I’m going to want to spend time with them, too, okay?”  
“Yes, but… do we always have to see them?”  
John chuckled. “No, but sometimes. Just be nice, yeah?”  
“Yes, alright.” Sherlock sat down beside John and grabbed a few pieces of Lego, moodily snapping them together.

Sherlock didn’t have to suffer the other children for much longer; within the half-hour, they had all been picked up.   
“Come, Sherlock, it’s time we made our farewells. It’s getting late.”   
“But everyone just left.”  
“Yes, and we should follow suit, get out of Mrs. Watson’s hair. You’ll see John soon, I promise.”  
“Before Christmas?” Sherlock asked with wide eyes.  
“Yes, of course, you still have lessons together, and we can set up play dates for you and John.” Mycroft beckoned to Sherlock to stand up.  
“Fine. I’ll see you soon, John.”  
“Happy Birthday, John,” Greg added as he and Mycroft got Sherlock’s coat and shoes on him.  
“Happy Birthday,” the Holmes brothers parroted as they prepared to make their way outside.   
“See you later!” John replied, holding the door open for them as the three exited the house. “Thanks for coming!” The three boys waved before getting into the dark car at the curb. They sat in silence as the car pulled away from the curb.  
“Well, I think that counts as my social interaction quota for the month, Mycroft.”  
“You barely interacted with the other children.” Mycroft was unimpressed.  
“But I was around them. They’re stupid filled the air and I was forced to endure it for hours. That must count.”  
“Sherlock, stop being ridiculous. I will concede an hour and a half that can go towards your quota.” Mycroft’s tone brooked no arguments, which Sherlock quickly realized.  
“Fine.”  
“Wait a second, you have a monthly social interaction quota?”  
“Yes.” Sherlock sounded bored.  
“It was the only way I could get him to socialize.” Mycroft explained wearily.   
“I still don’t see the purpose,” Sherlock commented. “The whole world is dull, anyway.”  
“I realize that’s how you feel, but eventually those ‘dull people’ will be your peers and you will have to learn to tolerate them. Best to start early.” Sherlock offered no response.   
“But did you have fun today?” Greg asked.  
“As much fun as one can have in a room of idiots, I suppose.”  
“It’s not nice calling people idiots, Sherlock,” Greg admonished.  
“I’m not doing it to their faces,” Sherlock pointed out, quite reasonably he thought.  
“Yes, well, I suppose that’s something,” Greg commented drily. “And this is me,” he added as they pulled up to his house. “See you lads later.” He squeezed Mycroft’s hand once and ruffled Sherlock’s hair before getting out of the car and running up to his house.  
“So when’s the wedding?” Sherlock asked sarcastically.  
“Right after you win the Nobel Peace Prize.”  
“So next year?”  
“The day you win any prize for peace is the day I marry the Queen.”  
“Better start sending out the invitations, then.”  
“You are ridiculous.”  
Sherlock smiled.


	13. Christmas!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas eve and Christmas in the Holmes household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed. Leave kudos and comments at your leisure! Merry Christmas!

Dec. 24  
“Sherlock, would you stop with the screeching?”  
“It’s Christmas Eve, Mycroft, and I’m playing Jingle Bells. It’s festive.” There may have been a hint of mischievous glee in Sherlock’s eyes as he responded to Mycroft’s pleas.   
“It’s one of the scariest renditions I have heard, brother mine.”  
“Good.” Sherlock continued to gleefully saw at his violin, each note a screeching knife in the air.  
Mummy and Father were expected home sometime in the evening, and it was fast approaching five o’clock. Although he wouldn’t admit it, Sherlock was nervous they would not show up.  
“They’ll be here,” Mycroft told Sherlock gently, seeming to read his mind. Their parents lately had been arriving late at night and leaving early in the morning, missing seeing their children completely.  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said, faking nonchalance. His eyes flicked to the clock before resolutely landing back on the violin under his chin. A couple more notes emitted from the violin before Sherlock placed it in the case on the floor. “Are we waiting for them for supper?”  
“No, would you like to eat?”  
“Yes. Please.” Mycroft stood and took Sherlock’s outstretched hand. Although the boy had recently rebelled against hand-holding, he secretly found it comforting and therefore allowed it at home. 

They steadily made their way down to the kitchen, where a small dinner awaited them. They both sat down and quietly ate their dinner, the silence broken only by Sherlock’s broken humming of Christmas carols around bites of his food. When Sherlock was almost finished his mashed potatoes, he noticed Mycroft looking at the door to the kitchen.  
“Mummy and Father are home,” Mycroft told Sherlock. “They’ll be in shortly, no doubt.”  
As if on cue, their parents walked through the doorway, smiling brightly.  
“Hello my babies. How are you?”  
“Good, Mummy!”  
“I am well, thank you.”  
“That is good to hear. Are you almost finished your dinner?”  
“Yes, I’m all done,” Sherlock said, pushing his plate away despite the small mound of mashed potatoes still on the plate.   
“How is your violin going, dear?”  
“It’s fine.”  
“Would you like to play for us?” Sherlock leaped up from his seat and raced to his mother’s side.  
“Yes, please!” Mummy held out her hand and Sherlock took it without hesitation. Mycroft stood up from the table and followed the pair out, accompanying his father who had stayed by the door during the exchange. The family made it’s way to the sitting room and Sherlock rushed to the violin case, whipping it open and quickly tucking the violin under his chin while the other members of his family settled on different pieces of furniture. As the bow was dragged across the strings, the careful notes of Jingle Bells rang out, more harmonious than the previous performance. When he was done everyone clapped and Mummy stood and hugged him.  
“That was truly delightful, Sherlock! Very well done!” She kissed his cheek and smoothed his hair off of his forehead. “And now I think it’s time you go to bed, my dear. We have church in the morning.”  
Sherlock pouted for a moment. “Will you read me two bedtime stories?”  
“Yes, dear of course. Go put your pj’s on and we’ll be in in a moment.”  
“Okay.” Sherlock ambled up the stairs quickly, Redbeard hot on his heels and his claws scrabbling along the floor at the top of the stairs.   
“Would you like to join us, Mycroft?”  
“Yes, I’ll come up with you,” Mycroft decided after a minute of contemplation.  
They all made their way up the stairs to Sherlock’s room and Mummy and Father took their place on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, taking their respective roles in the narration of “The Night Before Christmas”. Mycroft leaned on the doorjamb and listened contently to his parents, enjoying the story and the rapt expression on Sherlock’s face. They then read “The Gingerbread Man” before both kissing Sherlock goodnight. Mycroft went in and kissed Sherlock on the forehead before bidding him goodnight. 

As Mycroft was climbing into bed a couple hours later, he heard a soft tap on the door before it opened a crack. The sliver of a pale face glowed through the crack. “Mycroft?”  
“What is it, Sherlock?”  
“I can’t sleep.” The door opened fully to admit Sherlock and Redbeard into the room.  
“Have you honestly tried?”  
“Yes, I counted sheep, and recited elements, and told Redbeard a story, but nothing worked.” Mycroft sighed.  
“Alright, come on.” Mycroft pulled back the corner of his blankets and patted the spot beside him. Sherlock climbed in and Redbeard followed closely behind. Without another word, Sherlock curled into Mycroft so that he was curled around Redbeard with Mycroft curled around his back.  
“Goodnight Sherlock.” Mycroft let his nose rest in the inky curls as he felt Sherlock’s breath slowing and steadying. Sherlock was too far gone to respond.

Dec. 25

“Why is it so early?” Sherlock whined, rubbing his eyes and fidgeting in his Christmas Mass suit.   
“Shh!” Mycroft admonished softly. He put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. “Rest your head on me. Close your eyes and I’ll wake you when we have to stand.” Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, letting his weight fall onto Mycroft. The hard pew was not conducive to sleep, but Sherlock seemed to be defying it by sleeping soundly on Mycroft’s shoulder. The sermon passed in a blur, Sherlock sleeping through most of it, Mummy and Father somber on Sherlock’s other side. When they had to stand, Mycroft would nudge Sherlock and prop him up against his side.   
When the service was over, the Holmes’ made the rounds to the rest of the congregation, wishing all of them a Merry Christmas. They then piled into the car and drove back home.   
They opened their presents and had breakfast. Sherlock’s favourite present was an anatomically correct stuffed skull, and he carried it around for the rest of the day, constantly whispering secrets and deductions about his many family members to it.   
The afternoon and evening passed in a constant state of boredom broken only by the twinkling lights strung up around the house that constantly captivated Sherlock’s attention. He entertained himself by alternatingly watching the lights twinkle and finding increasingly small hiding spots from his relatives. Mycroft and his parents were constantly fishing him out of one hiding spot or another, and forcing him back into conversation with his relatives, all who were at least four times older than him. Sherlock was glad to see the company leave at the end of the night and prepared himself without fuss for bed.   
“John’s coming over tomorrow, right?” The boy asked as his parents as they were tucking him in for the night.  
“Yes, dear of course. And Gregory too, if I’m not mistaken. Are you looking forward to it?”  
“Yes, Mummy! Goodnight!” Sherlock pulled his blankets around his head, effectively blocking out his parents. Mummy and Father just chuckled before bidding their youngest goodnight and exiting the room.   
“Goodnight Sherlock,” Mycroft spoke to the mound of sheets occupying Sherlock’s bed.  
“Goodnight Mycroft!” Came the muffled reply, and Mycroft shook his head. As he was closing the door, he heard Sherlock whispering to the skull he had effectively curled around.


	14. Snowball fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a snowball fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied, I'm breaking my hiatus once because I found this short chapter I had already written. Enjoy! Leave kudos and comments at your leisure :)

Thud. Thud. Thud. Three hits in rapid succession. Situation: dire.   
“Retreat!!” John shouted in desperation. He and Sherlock scrambled behind a wide tree, trying to regroup. “We are under serious fire here. We need to think up a better strategy than run and throw the snowballs.”   
“Any suggestions?” Sherlock was breathing hard from running around.  
“I dunno. We could climb a tree?”  
“And be stranded up there with no ammo?”  
“Alright, how about you run out as decoy and I fire snowballs at them?”  
“Why don’t you run out?”  
“Because I clearly have better aim than you do.”  
“Slander!”  
“Well that’s a new word,” a deeper voice came from the other side of the tree right before snowballs pelted the boys. They screamed and ran in vain away from the onslaught.   
As John was turning to regroup with Sherlock, he was lifted off his feet and into the air and shrieked once more, an echoing shriek occurring beside him.  
“We seem to have caught ourselves two scoundrels here. Pretty squirmy.” Greg dropped John onto the cushion of snow and reached down to tickle him relentlessly. John giggled and batted at Greg and his hands uselessly, Sherlock at his side in the same situation. The older boys were relentless in their tickling until shouts of surrender were heard in between giggles. “Better take our prizes in so we can prepare them for dinner. A tasty treat they will be tonight.”  
Greg was being so contagiously silly that even the Holmes’ boys couldn’t help but be drawn into the silly game.  
“No we don’t want to be eaten!”  
“We’ll taste horrible!”  
“We’re all gross and stuff!” John tried to reason.  
“Definitely not food material,” Sherlock confirmed.  
By this point they had reached the house and had made their way inside. Greg and Mycroft dropped both boys on the ground and helped them climb out of their snow gear. Once they were freed, both boys scampered to the living room in the Holmes residence and started building a blanket fort in retaliation to their defeat outside. Once they had taken off their own outerwear and put it all away, Greg and Mycroft made their way to the kitchen where they loaded up a tray with hot chocolate and cookies.   
They made their way cautiously into the living room, wary of flying ammo that could be flung at them.   
“We come in peace,” Greg called. “We come bearing hot chocolate and cookies.”  
“Show us the food and we’ll let you come in peace.”   
Greg held back a chuckle and held the tray out before him as he carefully made his way into the living room before Mycroft. Two sets of eyes were peeking over the back of the sofa, and no pillow fort was in sight, although there was a suspicious pile of blankets on the floor.  
“I see your pillow fort didn’t quite stay up,” Mycroft commented drily from behind Greg.   
“We would like the cookies and hot chocolate now, please.” There was no negotiation in the tone of John’s voice.   
“Alright boys, take a mug and we’ll share the cookies.” Each of them took a mug and Greg dropped the tray on the low table beside the couch. “Everyone take a seat on the nest of pillows and blankets in the middle of the floor.” Everyone cuddled into a blanket and pillow, a mug of hot chocolate cradled in their hands. “Careful there John, you almost spilled.”  
“Oops.”  
Greg went to the fire and stoked it, lending more warmth to the room and it’s occupants. He then settled himself amongst the others, making sure to cuddle tightly up to Mycroft. John leaned against Greg and beckoned Sherlock closer. Sherlock resisted.  
“Come on, Sherlock.”  
“No thank you.” John scrutinized him for a minute.   
“Fine, more warmth for me,” he shrugged. They murmured quietly and drowsily, the younger boys falling quiet quickly. Greg and Mycroft conversed a little longer about nothing and then they too fell asleep.  
When the Holmes parents returned later that night, it was to the sight of Sherlock sprawled across the other boys, head on Greg’s chest and feet in Mycroft’s face, arms stretched towards John, and all of them fast asleep.


	15. Hiccups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft go on their first official date, only to be interrupted by a Sherlockian crisis!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg's cure for hiccups is my personal cure. Works like a charm, every time! Leave kudos and comments at your leisure. Thanks for reading!

“Mycroft, we need to talk.” Ice slid down Mycroft’s spine as he looked over at Greg. They were lounging on either end of the sofa, enjoying an afternoon free of Sherlock. They both had the day off school, Greg didn’t have to work and Sherlock was at John’s house on a play date. Quiet conversation, interspersed with comfortable silence, had been the theme of the afternoon.  
“What would you like to discuss, Gregory?” Mycroft asked, a protective mask of indifference sliding in place.   
“Us?” Greg said, trying to work up courage. He always hated talking about feelings. “This. What are we? Are we dating? We’ve held hands and we act like we might be a couple. So, what?” Mycroft frowned. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but it wasn’t this.  
“Oh, I- I’m not sure Gregory, what do you suppose?” He sounded genuinely confused.  
“Well, I’d like to date you. I mean, we’ve held hands and stuff, but we’ve never really been on a date, have we?”   
“No, but to be fair, we haven’t really ever had much time, either. Between school and Sherlock, I’m not free very often,” Mycroft admitted.  
“Well, we’re free now, right?” Greg slung his arm along the back of the sofa, subtly reaching out to Mycroft.  
“Yes, I suppose. What would you suggest?”  
“Well, we’re picking Sherlock up at six thirty, and it’s just past three. What do you say to going out for an early dinner?”  
Mycroft was baffled for only a moment before he nodded. “Yes, I think that should work.”   
“Do you have any idea where you want to go?”  
“Well, there is this small Italian place that Sherlock and I quite enjoy.”  
“Sounds good. Why don’t we go tell Ms. Williams where we’re going and then head out?”  
“Yes, alright.” Mycroft stood from the couch and offered his hand to Greg, who took it and hoisted himself off the couch. Hands still linked, they made their way to the kitchen where Ms. Williams could almost always be found.  
“We’re going out for dinner before we pick up Sherlock. I’ll have my phone on me,” Mycroft told her, leaning against the doorframe with Greg at his side.  
“You lads have fun,” she said with a titter and a wave.  
The two boys made a hasty exit, collecting a driver and car on their way out.   
“Angelo’s, please,” Mycroft said, from the backseat of the car, leaning towards the driver.  
“Yes, sir.” The car pulled away from the house and the boys settled into comfortable conversation for the entire ride, hands clasped as the driver navigated the crowded London streets.   
“Thank you,” Mycroft said when hey had reached their destination. “I will call you when we are ready to be collected.”  
“Very good, sir.” The two boys slid out of the backseat and crossed to the front door of Angelo’s. Greg held the door for Mycroft, separating their hands.  
“A table for two, please,” Mycroft said to Angelo, who rushed to greet them at the door.  
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. No Sherlock today?”  
“Thankfully, he is at a friends house for the afternoon.”   
Angelo chuckled. “A date then?” He said, a twinkle in his eye.   
“Indeed,” Mycroft’s face turned a light shade of pink. Greg grinned at the rose colour that dusted Mycroft’s cheeks and forehead.   
“Right this way,” Angelo ushered them to a table in the back that was secluded from the rest of the restaurant. “For privacy.” The boys took a seat on either side of the small square table, picking up the menus and glancing over them.  
“Do you have a usual?” Greg asked Mycroft.  
“Yes, I usually get the penne alfredo. It is quite good.”   
“Maybe I’ll get that, then.” Angelo returned with two glasses of water.   
“Are you boys ready to order?”  
“Yes, I think we’ll both get the penne alfredo, please,” Mycroft said.  
“Good choices,” Angelo scooped up the menus and made his way to the kitchen.  
“So, how have classes been going?” Greg asked, reaching across the table and grasping Mycroft’s hand, which had been resting on top of the table.  
“Qu-quite well, thank you, Gregory. And yours?”  
“Well I mean it’s school, so it could be better, could be worse.”  
“Yes, quite. And what of your family? They are all well?”   
The easy conversation continued between the two boys all the way through them finishing their dinner, when they were interrupted by Mycroft’s ringtone. He fished the phone out of his pocket ad took a moment to look at the screen.  
“Oh dear, it’s Ms. Watson, I’d best answer. Ms. Watson? Yes, hello… Oh yes, I see. Right, well can you put him on the phone? Is it really that bad? Yes, alright we’ll be there shortly, try to calm him down.” Mycroft hung up and waved down Angelo, asking for their bill.  
“What’s happened?” Greg asked as Mycroft pulled out his card to pay. Greg was too distracted by the situation to protest Mycroft paying for both their meals.  
“She didn’t say, she just said Sherlock’s in hysterics.”   
“Do you really think it’s that bad? Sherlock can go into hysterics for minimal reasons.” Greg pointed out.  
“Yes, but I’d rather not take the chance,” Mycroft insisted. Greg heaved a defeated sigh.  
“Alright, but I get the feeling this will be an ongoing theme to our dates.”  
Mycroft blushed and quickly finished paying. Both boys ran out to the car Mycroft had called.  
“To the Watsons’ residence, as quickly as possible,” Mycroft said as he was closing the door to the back seat.   
The car pulled up to the dilapidated house in record time. Both boys tumbled out of the car and to the front door, where Mycroft knocked none too gently.  
“Mycroft, come on in,” Ms. Watson said, opening the door. “He’s right this way.” She led them to the kitchen where John and Sherlock were sat at the kitchen table, John holding Sherlock’s hand while tears ran down the dark-haired boy’s cheeks. Mycroft ran to Sherlock’s chair and knelt down in front of him, Greg following behind and standing behind Mycroft.  
“What is the matter, brother dear?” he asked, running his hand over Sherlock’s curls as he looked for any sign of physical distress.  
“I- I have-“ Sherlock’s sentence was broken by a rather spectacular hiccup, which brought on more tears. “Hiccups!” he wailed inconsolably.  
“Please tell me that is not all that is the matter,” Mycroft deadpanned.  
“But I ha-have the hiccups!” Sherlock wailed again, as if that would help his explanation.  
“All this fuss over a case of the hiccups, Sherlock, really? I thought there was something seriously wrong. You had us all worried,” Mycroft admonished.  
“But there-” hic “is something-“ hiccup “terribly wrong!” The last hiccup shook the boy’s entire frame.  
“Alright, Sherlock, I think it’s time we went home,” Mycroft took Sherlock’s open hand and gently guided him off the chair.  
“I want to-“ hiccup “stay! I just need to get rid-” hic “of these stupid things!” Mycroft picked Sherlock up. He had only seen his brother this distressed when he was truly exhausted.  
“Come, Sherlock. It’s nearly six thirty anyway, you would have been going home soon.”   
Sherlock rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder and mumbled “I don’t wanna,” but there was no force behind it. Mycroft carried Sherlock to the front door where Ms. Watson handed over his coat. Mycroft gently set Sherlock on the ground and handed his jacket to him.  
“Put that on and we’ll head home.” Sherlock started slowly slipping his jacket on, unaware of Lestrade creeping up behind him.   
Just as Sherlock was finishing zipping up his coat, Lestrade jumped up behind him and shouted “boo!” Sherlock jumped about a foot and shrieked, turning quickly around. When he realized the source of his distress, his face sunk into a glare.  
“That was not funny, Lestrade,” he said over John and Greg’s raucous laughter.  
“It was pretty funny,” John said between peels of laughter.  
“Traitor,” Sherlock muttered darkly. Greg snorted at this.  
“Say goodbye to John now, Sherlock.”  
“Goodbye, John. I hope a monster jumps out from under your bed tonight.”  
John snorted. “Goodnight to you too.”  
“We’ll see you soon,” Greg said to Ms. Watson and John as he ushered the Holmes’ brothers out. The three of them piled into the car and waved at Ms. Watson’s and John’s retreating forms. Sherlock sat across from Mycroft and Lestrade, who had joined hands once more. Sherlock crossed his arms and glared at Lestrade, the menace in his stare diminished slightly by the hiccups that kept wracking his small frame.  
“You’ve really got them bad, hey lad?” Lestrade said conversationally as they neared the Holmes residence. “Have you tried a spoonful of peanut butter?”   
“Of course not, that’s absurd,” Sherlock managed before another hiccup hit him.  
“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” Lestrade said.  
They reached the house and quickly got Sherlock inside the door and out of his outerwear. Greg picked him up easily and took him down to the kitchen.  
“Hello, Ms. Williams,” Greg greeted the housekeeper as he dropped Sherlock onto a counter. “Do you have peanut butter?” She looked askance at him before going to the pantry and pulling out a jar of peanut butter. “And a spoon?” She fetched one for him and leaned against a counter near the boys. Mycroft had followed after hanging up all the coats and was now leaning in the doorframe of the kitchen.  
“He has the hiccups,” he explained to Ms. Williams, “and my solution is always a spoonful of peanut butter.” He untwisted the lid on the jar and dipped the spoon into the gooey peanut butter, getting a heaping mass onto it. “Now swallow all of this, but no chewing.” He handed the heaping spoon of peanut butter to Sherlock, who eyed it apprehensively before shoving it into his mouth. The spoon came out clean as Sherlock’s throat worked to swallow the sticky peanut butter.  
One it had all gone down, the room waited for a few moments with bated breath.  
“Did it work?” Ms. Williams asked.  
“I believe so,” Sherlock said disbelievingly.   
“I don’t know why you all doubted,” Greg commented smugly while Mycroft chuckled.  
“Well, since this crisis has been averted, what would you like to do for your hour of free time, Sherlock?”  
“I would like to play with Redbeard,” he said decidedly.  
“Up to your room then, and we’ll be up in an hour to get you ready for bed.” Sherlock scampered out of the kitchen and up to his bedroom, where Redbeard excitedly awaited him.   
“Well, we’ve got an hour,” Greg said suggestively, squeezing Mycroft’s hand. “What to do, what to do?”  
“We could go to library? Enjoy a cup of tea by the fire?”  
“That sounds lovely.” They made their way quickly to the library on the first floor, Mycroft leading the way.   
When they reached the library, a fire was already merrily crackling in the fireplace. They settled on the sofa, Mycroft snuggled into Greg’s side, his head resting on Greg’s chest. Each of them had a book in hand.  
“How’s your book, Mycroft?” Greg asked after ten minutes of silence. He nuzzled his nose into the top of Mycroft’s head. Mycroft started to speak, turning to face Greg more completely. As he was turning, his nose bumped Greg’s, who had brought his face much closer to Mycroft’s. Without hesitation, Greg brought his lips to Mycroft’s, capturing them in a short kiss. “This okay?”  
Mycroft looked stunned or a moment before he grinned and leaned forward, bumping noses once again in an attempt to reconnect their lips. Laughter vibrated from Greg’s lips to Mycroft’s as the kiss deepened. A hand snaked around the back of Mycroft’s neck and brought him closer than he thought possible. The two of them lay on the couch, lazily kissing and cuddling until Sherlock stomped into the library, Redbeard hot on his heels.  
“Gross. It is time to tuck me into bed,” he announced matter-of-factly, turning smartly on his heel with a “come, Redbeard.” The puppy quickly bounded after his master, the two older boys reluctantly in tow.  
When Greg and Mycroft reached the top of the stairs, they found Sherlock already in the bathroom, pajamas tucked under his arms and Redbeard stationed gleefully at his side.  
“Alright, you start getting undressed and I’ll draw your bath.” Sherlock started clumsily undoing his buttons, his tongue sticking out slightly as he concentrated. Greg, sensing that a ritual was being performed, stationed himself on the floor in the doorway with his legs crossed, petting Redbeard.   
Sherlock quickly divested himself of the rest of his clothing and hopped into the half-filled bathtub. Mycroft handed him a washcloth and let him do most of the washing, supervising to make sure every inch was scrubbed. There were only a few attempts at escape and one attempt at a splash that were quickly deflected by an experienced Mycroft. Once the major areas had been covered, Mycroft said “hair” and Sherlock obediently closed his eyes while Mycroft reached for a plain plastic cup that sat on the edge of the cup. Filling the cup with water, he shielded Sherlock’s eyes and poured the water down his head, letting it run down his back. He made quick work of scrubbing shampoo into the boy’s scalp and rinsing it.   
“Alright Sherlock, time to get out.” Clambering out of the tub, Sherlock gave himself a bit of a shake before diving for the door. Greg, who had stood during the bath, missed catching Sherlock by an inch.   
“Oy!” he shouted, quickly turning and running after Sherlock.  
“You’ll never catch me!” the maniac shouted.   
“Come back here you hooligan!” Laughter floated back to Mycroft, who quickly scooped up a towel and went in pursuit of the two mad men running around the house.  
Tiny footsteps pattered around the floor, claws scrabbling behind him. Sherlock ran into his room and circled the bed, putting it between himself and the door. He picked up a foam play sword that was lying at his feet.  
“If ye want me, you’ll have to take me dead!” he cried in a poor imitation of a pirate voice.  
“That can be arranged,” Greg said, slowly approaching Sherlock. Sherlock waved the sword menacingly, but Greg was not deterred. He felt Mycroft come up behind him and knew they could catch Sherlock together. Bracing himself, Greg jumped across the bed and tried to tackle Sherlock, getting a whack in the chest for his troubles but managing to drive Sherlock across the bed and right into the towel Mycroft was proffering.   
“Got you!” Mycroft said triumphantly, bundling Sherlock in the towel and throwing him on the bed where he proceeded to tickle him into submission.   
“If you don’t be careful, you’re going to end up giving him the hiccups again!” Greg said from beside Mycroft.  
“I have been betrayed! There is no hope! Redbeard, save yourself!” Sherlock cried dramatically from the bed. Redbeard, upon hearing his name, barked loudly and jumped onto the bed, licking at Sherlock’s face. “White flag, white flag!” he cried helplessly between fits of giggles.  
Mycroft eased up and scooped Sherlock into his arms, carrying him back to the bathroom and his awaiting pajamas. It was pajamas covered in trains tonight, one of Mycroft’s favourite pairs on Sherlock. They quickly made their way back to Sherlock’s bedroom and got him tucked in. They were halfway through the first Harry Potter, and Mycroft picked it up off the bedside table and opened it, perching on one side of the bed. Greg propped himself on the wall beside Sherlock’s bed, watching Mycroft warmly as he animatedly read two chapters to his younger brother. Once Sherlock was suitably tucked in, Greg and Mycroft bid the boy goodnight and left the room, closing the door behind them.  
“You really do love him, don’t you?” Greg asked Mycroft once they had made it to the stairs.  
“Much as he is loathe to acknowledge, I do love my brother and I like to think he loves me back.” Greg took his hand and pressed his lips gently to Mycroft’s once more.  
“Oh trust me, there’s no doubt about that.”


	16. Sleepover Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a sleepover at Sherlock's house, and Greg is invited as supervising reinforcement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Leave kudos and comments at your leisure, I love them!

“Alright John, I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t be afraid to ring me up if you need anything, yeah?” John’s mum knelt down so she was eye level with him.  
“Yeah, mum, I’ll be fine.”  
“Looks like there’s a storm brewing out there, better get home before it starts raining,” Greg commented, glancing out the window at the grey-blanketed sky.   
“You boys have fun.” Ms. Watson kissed John on the forehead before ruffling his hair and slipping out the door.   
This was the first sleepover the boys were having, and Mycroft had offered to host it at their house, giving Ms. Watson a night off. She had gratefully accepted, and Mycroft had invited Greg over as reinforcement. This would be the first time Greg and Mycroft spent the night together, as well.  
“Okay lads, what’s the plan? Straight to bed then?” Greg joked. Sherlock looked affronted.  
“Just because we are having a sleep over does not mean we will be sleeping at all tonight,” Sherlock huffed.   
“Yeah,” John affirmed. “We’ll have pirate adventures, and play millions of games, and not sleep at all.” With that, Sherlock took John’s hand and they traipsed past Greg and Mycroft and up the stairs to Sherlock’s room. John had his overnight bag slung over his shoulder.  
“We’ll come grab you for a snack later,” Mycroft called after them. There was no response.  
“Well, what now?” Greg asked once they had disappeared, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.  
“Gregory, please, not until the children are asleep,” Mycroft joked, linking their hands together and drawing Greg closer. When their lips were a breath apart, Mycroft whispered, “we should probably see about getting their snack.” Greg chuckled and pecked Mycroft on the lips before dragging him to the kitchen.  
“Hello, Ms. Williams,” Greg greeted warmly, approaching the woman and pecking her on the cheek, Mycroft trailing behind.  
“Hello dear, how are you?”  
“I’m great, Ms. W., how about you?”  
“Oh, you know, trying to keep my boys out of trouble.” Her eyes twinkled as she grinned mischievously at Greg.  
“I am wounded,” Mycroft gasped, his free hand moving to cover his heart.  
“Drama queen,” Greg mumbled affectionately, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. “We’re here looking for a snack for the boys,” Greg informed Ms. Williams at a more normal volume.  
“I’ve got some juice and biscuits here ready for them,” Ms. Williams said, standing to retrieve the tray. “Where would you like it, Mycroft?”  
“Here is good. We’ll fetch the boys later and let them eat it here. Hopefully it will help contain the mayhem they are sure to cause.”   
“How about we let them play a little bit, first?” Greg suggested.  
“Brilliant, my dear,” Mycroft affirmed. “And what shall we do?”  
“We could watch a bit of telly until it’s time to fetch the boys?” Greg suggested.  
“Is that a euphemism for making out?” Mycroft asked, once brow arching.  
“Of course not,” Greg said for Ms. Williams’ benefit, going beet red. “We’ll be in here around eight,” Greg told Ms. Williams, dragging Mycroft out of the kitchen.  
“And I’ll be anywhere else,” she called after them. They giggled as they hurried down the hallway and into the entertainment room, flopping onto one of the plush couches positioned in front of the widescreen television.  
“What would you like to watch?” Mycroft asked, palming the remote control and turning on the television.  
“Whatever’s on,” Greg told him, snuggling closer to Mycroft. “I’m not really concerned, as we will be otherwise occupied.”  
“So it was a euphemism,” Mycroft exclaimed.  
“Yes, Mr. Smart-Deduction-Pants.”  
“Deductions work on facts, not on emotions,” Mycroft said primly.  
“Whatever you say,” Greg teased, running his nose along Mycroft’s cheekbones.   
Mycroft didn’t need any further prodding- he turned his head so that their lips connected, slowly working his way into Greg’s mouth. One hand cupped the back of Greg’s neck while the other slid down to Greg’s shoulder. Greg’s hands both snaked into Mycroft’s hair, his fingertips lightly scratching Mycroft’s scalp. Mycroft hummed in appreciation against Greg’s mouth, running his tongue lightly along Greg’s lips before pulling away.  
“Well, that’s one way to shut me up,” Greg snickered, his nose lightly tracing along Mycroft’s neck.  
“We probably shouldn’t get too distracted while we’re still in charge of the boys,” Mycroft sighed.  
“Probably not.” Greg glanced at the clock on the side table beside the couch. “But hey, that killed enough time. And was very pleasurable. Let’s go get the boys ready for a snack.”  
It was not too much of a struggle to get the boys to eat the biscuits Ms. Williams had prepared and the endeavor was relatively mess-free, something for which the older boys were grateful. Once hands and face had been wiped down, Greg asked once again “So, off to bed now?”  
“Yeah, right,” John chuckled. Greg joined him good-naturedly. Then he had an idea.  
“You lads want to build a blanket fort?” Greg asked, clapping his hands together.  
“Yeah!” both boys cheered.   
“Great, let’s get you in your pajamas and then we’ll build a fort in the entertainment room.”  
John and Sherlock scampered upstairs and got their pajamas out, the older boys climbing up at a slower pace.   
“Is there any sort of tactic behind this plan, my dear?” Mycroft asked as they climbed the stairs.  
“I’m hoping the excitement will tire them out quicker,” Greg admitted with a grin.  
“Very smart,” Mycroft hummed his approval. When Greg and Mycroft entered the room, John and Sherlock held their respective sets of pajamas in their hands.  
“Go ahead and get changed, lads,” Greg said, leaning on the doorframe to supervise the changing. Slithering out of their clothes, Sherlock and John quickly slipped into their pajamas, only requiring assistance with putting their shirts on.   
“Now what?” John asked.   
“Now we collect all the blankets and rope and chairs we can find,” Greg said, turning to Mycroft.   
“Collect the extra blankets from our closets, and from the linen closet in the hallway and meet us in the entertainment,” Mycroft instructed the younger boys. They saluted before scampering off to obey.  
When Mycroft and Greg had collected all the chairs and rope they could find, they carted it all to the entertainment room where they were met with the sight of John and Sherlock on the couch surrounded by piles of blankets.  
“Now what?” Sherlock asked, parroting John from earlier.  
Now, with a bit of engineering and rigging, we should be able to create a blanket fort. I think I’ll let Mycroft take over for that bit.”   
For the next twenty minutes, Mycroft directed the three other boys, getting the chairs, rope and blankets into optimal position for a blanket fort. By the time they were done, there was a ceiling of blankets draped over the couch and most of the floor of the entertainment room. The floor in question was covered by pillows and blankets of all sizes and colours. Blanket walls surrounded and enclosed the area, filtering the light and allowing for a small, cozy area.  
“This is awesome!” John gushed.   
“It is passible,” Sherlock allowed, but his shining eyes betraying his excitement.   
“Now what?” Greg asked the boys.   
“Would you boys like a story?” Mycroft asked.  
“Yeah, story!” John cried.


	17. Blanket Fort part 2- The Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft tells the boys a tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long to get up, real life has been kicking me in the trousers! Please enjoy, and kudos and comment at your leisure :)

“ This is the story of two little boys.”  
“Boring.”  
“Fine. This is the story of two brave pirates.”  
“And their trusty dog,” Sherlock added.  
“Of course, and their trusty dog Redbeard. They were swashbucklers who roamed the seas looting and pillaging all ships that came in their paths. Together they ruled over their ship, the…”  
“Red Pearl,” Jon supplemented quickly.  
“The Red Pearl.” Mycroft agreed. “These two buckaneers thought they were satisfied with their lot in life, until one day they heard rumour of a ship carrying a load of gold so large and so valuable that they would never have to work another day in their lives.   
“The two boys were ecstatic at the idea of buying their own island where they could retire and do experiments and play football to their hearts content. And so, they set out to find the ship that carried the treasure.” An ominous ripple of thunder sounded outside the house, prompting Sherlock to tighten his grip on the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “They didn’t know the second part of the rumours, however. Legend said that anyone who went searching for the treasure would never find it, and would fall victim to terrible forces.” Three attentive sets of eyes locked onto Mycroft as he spun his tale, Greg as enthralled as the two younger boys. “But because they were greedy and wanted their treasure, they quickly set to work using deductions and science to find the ship housing the treasure.”  
“They seem like very intelligent pirates,” Sherlock commented.  
“They were,” Mycroft conceded with a small smile. “Because of their skills in the sciences, they found the ship in no time at all. They made a plan of attack that involved the cover of night and many canons.” Another rumble of thunder, louder this time, tore through the house. Sherlock let out a poorly-muffled whimper and scooted subtly closer to Mycroft. John curled closer to Greg, seeking comfort from the older boy. “Setting out the next night, the two pirates put their plan swiftly into action. They armed their ship to the teeth and set out, approaching their targeted ship quickly and quietly. But, just as they were approaching the ship-“ a boom of thunder rumbled through the house so loudly it shook the floor beneath them.   
“The East Wind,” Sherlock yelped in the ensuing quiet, burrowing further into his blanket.   
“The East Wind took them away and punished them eternally for their greed.”   
“And on that note, I think it’s time we go to sleep,” Greg piped up from beside Mycroft, patting John on the back. He had wrapped his limbs tightly around Greg.   
“I’m never sleeping again,” John whispered. Greg chuckled.  
“Well, as long as you’re good, your safe from the East Wind, yeah? So why don’t you go curl up beside Sherlock and try to get some sleep.”   
John crawled to Sherlock and curled up on the opposite side from Mycroft. Just as he reached Sherlock, another roll of thunder rippled through the house, as loud as the last one. Both boys whimpered and curled closer to each other.   
“You’re both sleeping down here tonight, right?” John asked quietly.  
“If that’s what you want,” Mycroft answered, although his brother’s tight grip on his arm was answer enough.   
“Yes please,” John answered for both of them. Greg slotted himself on John’s other side, effectively sandwiching the two younger boys between the two older. Greg pulled a blanket over them all and they all snuggled in for the night as the thunder continued to roll outside.


	18. First day of school

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John's first day of school

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Kudos and comment at your leisure, I love it!

“Take your hands off me,” Sherlock muttered mutinously as he was led to the front doors of the large, intimidating school. “I do not need assistance entering the est- estlabish- the building.” The more nervous Sherlock got, the more he tripped over words.  
“Maybe not, brother dear, but I am not foolish enough to drop you off at the door and assume you will concede to entering. Now come along, we’ll see if we can’t find your classroom and John Watson.”   
“Is this truly necessary?” Sherlock dredged up an argument that had been trotted out many times over the summer. “I don’t see why you couldn’t just hire tutors for me. They would match me in inte-intellegence more than the teachers and students here.”  
“But there would be no socialization with peers your own age,” Mycroft argued with a tone of finality. “Enough. It’s time to go in.” Mycroft put pressure on Sherlock’s shoulder, steering him relentlessly towards the front doors.   
Their parents had sent them off that morning with lots of kisses and assurances for Sherlock and a promise to see him after school, along with apologies for not being able to escort him to school personally.   
They entered into the main foyer of the school, a tall ceilinged, brightly lit stone room that echoed horribly when hundreds of children and their escorts were ensconced within. There was a corkboard for each grade propped on individual easels; class lists were attached to them with jauntily-coloured push pins. Mycroft and Sherlock approached the board marked “Year 1” and scanned the different lists until finding Sherlock under the name “Ms. McIntyre”.   
“Room 122,” Mycroft read aloud before looking up to the signs hung from the ceiling.  
“Sherlock!” John’s voice came from behind them, and they both swiveled to find an excited John running towards them with a bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder, his frazzled mother trailing close behind.   
“John, Ms. Watson,” Mycroft greeted both of them with a small quirk of his lips.  
“Hello Mycroft!” John shout-greeted, Ms. Watson throwing an exhausted smile over her son’s head.   
“We’ve already found the teacher and classroom number, so if you would all like to follow me, we can be on our way.” Mycroft took off confidently to his right, following the sign marking “rooms 100-125 this way”.   
The room was near the end of the hall, on the right side. Mycroft gestured the boys in in front of him, letting them lead the way into their new classroom.  
“Hello!” chirped a cheerful voice as the small group entered. “And who do we have here?” The room beyond the woman was decorated with bright, colourful posters depicting primer words and numbers along with shapes and colours. Bright but natural light filled the space and illuminated the murals of flora and fauna that decorated the walls.   
“I’m John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes,” John greeted nervously, holding out his hand to the teacher. “We’re best friends.”  
“Very lovely to meet you,” the woman said, crouching down to be level with John and shaking his outstretched hand. “My name is Ms. McIntyre, I’ll be your teacher for the year. Would you boys like to come in and play?”Sherlock eyed the woman and the few other children in the space warily, not saying anything.   
“What do you have to play with?” John asked for them both.  
“We’ve got lots. We’ve got the blocks corner over there,” she explained, pointing to one corner of the room, “and a car mat over there, a colouring station at that table, the carpenter station near the door, a house beside it. The only thing we can’t play with today is the sand and water table, we’ll save that for another day. Anything appeal to you lads?” Sherlock’s lips thinned and he crossed his arms.   
“Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered warningly, “cooperate. Is there anything that appeals?”   
Sherlock turned to face Mycroft and, sensing an argument coming on, Mycroft crouched down and brought his face close to Sherlock’s.  
“I want to go home,” Sherlock ground out through clenched teeth. Closing his eyes, Mycroft took a moment to gather his temper and hold it in a tight fist.   
“Not an option,” he replied evenly. “Don’t you want to spend the day with John? You love spending time with John.”  
“I tolerate it.”  
“Come Sherlock, it won’t be that terrible. There’s lots to do here. I’m sure science experiments are included in some of the activities you will be doing.”  
“But not fun ones, like we do at home.”  
“Maybe, maybe not. You don’t know that until you try it. Think of the day as an experiment. You can collect data on a school day and the British school system. Doesn’t that sound alright?”   
Sherlock seemed thoroughly unconvinced, his eyes narrowing into slits and his mouth opening to unleash even more horrible things. Just then John came closer and brought his head into the tête-à-tête.  
“Sherlock, come play,” he whispered. “There’s dinosaurs. We love dinosaurs. Come on.” John grabbed his hand but Sherlock dug his heels in.  
“You will come pick me up at the end of the day?”  
“Of course. I will be right here when the bell rings, I promise.” He had made sure to have a free period his last class so he could leave his school early and pick up Sherlock at the end of his day.   
“And if there’s an emergency?”   
“If there’s a true emergency, the school has both Mummy and Daddy’s cellphone numbers, as well as mine. It will be on me at all times.”  
“I’m going to hate it,” Sherlock re-affirmed.  
“Goodbye, Sherlock,” Mycroft said firmly, putting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder momentarily and giving it a rub. “Goodbye, John, you two have a fun first day at school.” Mycroft ruffled John’s hair.  
“Wait!” Ms. Watson piped up from behind them. “I need a picture of the two of you.” Sherlock looked outraged, but hid it quickly when Mycroft shot him a warning look. “Just a quick one, Sherlock, love, I promise,” she said with a gentle smile, having caught Sherlock’s disgruntled look. She quickly snapped a few shots before dropping a kiss on the top of each boy’s head and joining Mycroft at the door. They both waved once more at the boys before leaving together, walking towards the main doors of the school.  
“Lucky for John, getting a partial scholarship to attend the same school as Sherlock,” Ms. Watson noted drily.   
“Yes this school is very generous in helping worthy cases where there is need of assistance,” Mycroft answered blandly. There was no need for anyone except for him and the Holmes parents to know about the generous, anonymous donation that had been made to the school to ensure John’s attendance. “He is quite intelligent and talented.”  
“Well I appreciate the help the school, and anyone else who gave assistance. I’m not one to accept charity, mind you, but John deserves a good chance at a good school. And now,” she continued as they reached the door, “it’s off t work for me and off to school for you.”  
“We can give John a ride home today, if that would aid. It’s no trouble, and I’m already coming by to pick Sherlock up. Unless, of course, you feel John would like you to pick him up?”  
“I don’t think he cares much either way,” she admitted with a chuckle. “He’s pretty easy-going, my John. If you wouldn’t mind, I would appreciate the help. That way I can have supper going by the time he gets home. I know he’ll be famished.”  
“Yes, he does eat a lot,” Mycroft laughed softly. “He’ll be growing quickly, I wager.”  
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Ms. Watson laughed. “Anyway, I really do have to head off to work, and you don’t want to be late for your first day of classes, either.”  
“That I do not. Goodbye, Ms. Watson, we’ll see you this afternoon.”  
“Bye Mycroft. Have fun at school.”  
****************  
“And was it so horrible?” Mycroft asked as the two boys got into the backseat of the car.  
“Yes.”  
“It was so much fun!” John exclaimed enthusiastically over top of Sherlock. “We played knights and castles, and we sang some songs, and ate some snacks, and learned some numbers. It was so cool! And Sherlock knew a lot of the stuff, so he was really smart. I like Ms. McIntyre.”  
“She’s an idiot.”  
“Sherlock, we don’t say things like that, it’s not nice.”  
“Plus, she’s actually pretty smart. She told us about spiders and how they are akrachnids and have like a zillion eyes but they aren’t bugs!”  
“I think the word you’re looking for is arachnid,” Mycroft corrected gently. “But that is very exciting. It sounds like you had a good day.”  
“I think the word you’re looking for is great,” John corrected gently.  
“I think the word you’re looking for is dull,” Sherlock corrected non-too-gently.  
“Come Sherlock, it couldn’t have been that bad. Name one thing you liked.”  
“Getting to leave.”  
“Sherlock,” there was a warning note in Mycroft’s voice.   
“Fine,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “The dinosaurs were fun.”  
“Yeah they were!” John cheered. “So fun. There are so many different kinds of dinosaurs! It’s so cool!”  
Mycroft chuckled at John exuberance. “Well I’m glad you had a good day,” Mycroft affirmed. “And now, I believe your mother is waiting for you, John,” Mycroft pointed out as they stopped in front of his house.   
“Thanks for the ride Mycroft, see you later! Bye Sherlock!”  
“See you tomorrow,” Sherlock answered back.  
“Have a nice evening,” Mycroft added.   
When the Holmes boys reached their own house, they entered to a quiet house.  
“Mummy and Daddy must not be home yet,” Mycroft commented. He looked at his watch. “It is a little early still. Let’s grab a snack and then the time is yours until Mummy and Daddy get home. You don’t have any homework, correct?”  
“Not yet, although I do have an agenda that one of my parents needs to sign each night to ensure I am doing my homework or something like that. I forgot.”  
“Alright, we’ll show it to them when they get home then, shall we?”  
“Yes. What are we having for snack?”  
“Apple slices today, brother dear. Let us go to the kitchen.” They traipsed to the kitchen, leaving their schoolbags at the front door. Mycroft quickly sliced the apple and placed it on a plate for easier transport. It was gone within a matter of minutes, Sherlock clearly hungrier than he let on.  
“What would you like to do now?” Mycroft asked.  
“Experiment,” Sherlock answered decisively.   
“Alright, lets head to the lab, then.” They headed down to the household lab where their parents worked on their own experiments and where Sherlock was only aloud if he had supervision.   
They did a basic experiment involving relatively harmless chemicals that resulted in precipitates forming. As they were cleaning up the experiment, they heard their parents entering the lab.   
“Mummy, Daddy,” Sherlock cried, jumping down from the stool he was perched on and running over to his parents, still dressed in a plastic apron and safety goggles strapped over his eyes.  
“Hello love, how was your first day of school?” Mummy asked, crouching down and giving Sherlock a hug.   
“It was fine,” Sherlock answered. “A bit dull, but they had dinosaurs so it wasn’t all bad.”  
“Dinosaurs are always good,” Daddy affirmed, squeezing his son’s shoulder. “Do you have a favourite?”  
“The raptors,” Sherlock replied without hesitation. “They are quick and cunning and I like that.”  
“Always a good reason to like something,” Mycroft stated drily.   
“We thought we’d have take-out tonight to celebrate Sherlock’s first day of school. Does that sound good?”  
“Chinese!” Sherlock cheered, a fist pumping into the air.  
“Whatever you like, dear.”  
They had Chinese for dinner that night, and Sherlock went to bed secretly excited for the next day to come.


	19. Bullies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have their first run in with bullies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, leave kudos and comments at your leisure, I eat them up like chocolate!

“What do red and blue make?”  
Sherlock’s hand shot into the air and he answered without being called on. “Purple!”  
“That’s right Sherlock, thank you again. But how about we let some of the other students answer the questions?”  
Sherlock glared moodily at his desk without answering. He didn’t understand why, if he knew the answer, he couldn’t just say it out loud. It would make the lesson go a lot faster, to be sure. But, he refrained from answering for the remainder of the lesson, opting instead to doodle idly on the side of his work page.  
At recess, all the children scurried outside to play on the towering jungle gym. Sherlock took John’s hand and led him towards the swings. Luckily for them they got there first and were able to snag two swings beside each other. They both started pumping their legs, having a competition to see who could swing higher. Just as Sherlock was reaching the apex of height he could reach, a voice called out from behind the swing set.   
“Oi, Holmes.”  
Sherlock didn’t falter in his swinging. “Yes, Pritchett?” Trevor Pritchett was a boy in their class who came from a wealthy family and lorded that fact over everyone’s heads.  
“You’re a freak, you know that, right?” This caused Sherlock’s legs to falter and he dragged his feet in the sand to bring himself to a halt.  
“What?” he looked at Pritchett over his shoulder.   
“You. Are. A. Freak. A weirdo.” Lunging forward, Pritchett reached out with both hands and shoved Sherlock off the swing. He landed on the gravel, knees and palms scraping sharply against the small rocks. “You never shut up in class. It’s annoying. And weird.” Growling, Sherlock spun around breathing hard. He was met with the sight of Pritchett standing smugly with his arms crossed, two of his cronies framing him on either side. The two boys were Archie and Reggie, a set of twins who shared one brain between the two of them.  
“You wet the bed,” blurted Sherlock. He felt the words trip out of his mouth before he could stop them, and briefly wanted to call them back when he saw the look on Trevor’s face. Pritchett’s mouth dropped open and he gaped like a fish, eyebrows furrowing in consternation. “It’s obvious, in the way you go over-frequently to the bathroom and avoid drinking water. You also constantly run your hands over your bottom, as if you’re checking if anyone notices an extra bulge under your pants.”  
“You filthy liar!” Pritchett shrieked. “That’s not true!” He looked at his cronies. “He’s lying,” he re-affirmed. “He’s just a freak with no friends, that’s why he knows so much, all he ever does is read. Like the loser nerd he is,” the boy sneered.   
A voice piped up from beside Sherlock. “You’re wrong.” John stood up next to Sherlock and crossed his arms. “I’m his friend.”  
“What’d he do, Watson, trick you into being his friend? Threaten to spill your secrets? Or does he give you answers to all the worksheets?”  
“No, he’s just my friend because he is. Because I like him. He’s my best friend and I think you lot should sod off.”  
“And I think you two should move on.”  
“I think we’ll actually just stay here, thanks,” John responded, not moving an inch.  
“Archie, please make them move,” Pritchett said calmly over his shoulder to one of his cronies.  
Archie stalked forward and pushed Sherlock once more to the ground, causing him to hit his head, before turning on John. John, who was expecting the attack, punched Archie in the jaw before he could land a hit. Archie was knocked back a step before he charged John once more, pouncing on him and taking him to the ground. He then punched John in the face twice before Sherlock pounced on his back and ripped him off John.  
“What is going on here?” boomed a voice from behind them. “Boys, all of you to the office. Now.” The burly teacher in the neon orange reflective vest marched the five boys to the headmaster’s office. “Wait here.” He knocked on the head master’s door and, when summoned, entered and closed the door behind him. The boys waited in silence for two minutes, blooding slowly oozing from their various cuts and scrapes. The door opened and the teacher silently let them in.  
“So boys,” began the Headmaster when the five boys had lined up standing in front of his desk. “Care to tell me what happened?” Three voices immediately clamored to be heard over one another.   
“He said I wet the bed-“  
“He pushed me off the swing-“  
“I was just defending Sherlock-“  
“Enough!” the Headmaster boomed over the boys’ small voices. “One at a time. Mr. Holmes, this is not the first time you are in my office. What say we let your colleagues go first.” Despite their only having been in school for three months, Sherlock had already been sent to the office a handful of times for being too disrupting in class. “Mr… Pritchett is it?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“You may go first.”  
“Thank you sir. You see, what happened was Holmes and Watson here were on the swings and me and the boys wanted a turn, see? So we asked nicely if we could have a turn but they wouldn’t let us on the swings. So, when they finished, I tried to get Holmes’ swing, and he must have fell. And then he said some nasty lies, and Archie here pushed him, to defend me. And that’s when Mr. Warner found us.”  
“Right. Mr. Holmes, would you like to tell your side of the story now?”  
“Yes. John and I were on the swings, minding our own business, when these brutes came up behind us and… provoked us. Said things that I would rather not repeat.” Sherlock took a moment to glare at Pritchett before continuing. “Then he pushed me off the swing and said some more rude things. Then I said something completely truthful, which Pritchett reacted badly to, and John defended me. And then Archie attacked us. That’s when Mr. Warner came up behind us and broke up the fight.”  
“Alright. Watson, anything to add?”  
“No sir, only that, based on the nasty things Pritchett said, Sherlock was in his right to defend himself. He’s not in the wrong, sir.”  
“And what exactly did he say?” John looked to Sherlock. He figured it was Sherlock’s right to retell what had been said against him. Steeling himself, Sherlock looked at the Headmaster.  
“He called me a… freak,” he breathed the word out on an exhale. “And said that I was annoying and didn’t have any friends. And that I was weird.”  
“Hm. And what did you say to Mr. Pritchett in return?”  
“I may have admitted that he wets the bed.”  
“I see. And was that it?” Sherlock nodded. “Anything else to add, boys?” He asked, referring to the other two boys. Pritchett’s two cronies shook their heads, remaining silent. “Well, I will have to call all your parents. We simply do not tolerate fighting at this school, boys. This is a high-end establishment that turns out well-rounded, civil men, and that is not achieved by allowing fighting amongst them. I will now have you all apologize to each other and then I think I will send you all home early. Sherlock, apologize to Trevor.”  
“No.”  
“Holmes, this is not a joke. You will apologize at once.” The Headmaster’s tone brooked no argument.  
“Sorry, Pritchett,” Sherlock mumbled sullenly.  
“For what?” prompted the Headmaster.  
“For revealing that you wet the bed.” Pritchett turned scarlet but wisely stayed silent.  
“Now, Mr. Watson.”  
“Sorry for punching you in the face Archie,” John said slightly less sullenly.  
“Mr. Pritchett,” the Headmaster continued.  
“Sorry for pushing you, John and Sherlock.”  
“And?”  
“And for calling you names.” Pritchett glared bloody murder at the duo.  
“Archie?”  
“Sorry for punching you, John and Sherlock.”  
“Thank you lads. Now we have all apologized, all is forgiven, and I’ll have you wait in the lobby for your parents to collect you. Thank you.” Without another word the boys filed out of the office and sat on the arrangement of plastic chairs in the lobby.   
Sherlock and John sat side by side across from the trio of boys. They sat in tense silence, the air thick with malice and palpable looks. With nothing else to focus on, Sherlock’s injuries became a bigger annoyance. Sherlock looked at his hands and palms that were scraped raw. Idly he picked out bits of gravel that were gouged deeply into his palm, hissing as the raw skin was exposed. When he had cleared both his palms, he started on his knees. He looked briefly over at John and noted that he was holding his sleeve to his bleeding lip, another cut along his cheekbone bleeding freely and leaving a trail of blood down his face.  
Sherlock paused from his own inspection to dig around in his pocket for a handkerchief that Mycroft always made him keep in his pocket. Silently, he handed it over to John. “You’ve got a cut on your cheek,” he explained quietly.   
“Thanks, mate,” John bumped his shoulder into Sherlock’s in solidarity.  
“You’re welcome.” They lapsed back into silence as they both tended quietly to their wounds. Glancing at the clock on the wall, Sherlock noted that it had been twenty minutes and that Mycroft should be there soon to take him home. It was only half past one; school wouldn’t officially be over for another two hours, but he knew Mycroft would leave class early to collect him, just as he knew his parents would not leave work early to do the same.   
When he had finished picking at his wounds, Sherlock turned to John. “Do you think you have a concussion?”  
“Nah, just a couple cuts.”  
“Pity, I would have liked to study the symptoms firsthand.” He smiled at John, who grinned back.   
Just then the door to the lobby opened and a man in an expensive suit and a phone attached to his ear walked in. Without saying a word to anyone in the room, he beckoned to Archie and Reggie, turned on his heel and left, the twins scampering to follow behind.   
Shortly after, a portly woman burst into the room and cried, “Mr. Pritchett, are you alright?” in slightly accented English.  
“Yes, Anna, leave off it. I’m fine. Please take me home.” And with that, Trevor stood and led the way out of the room. John and Sherlock shared a look and started laughing.   
“I can’t believe we got in a fight,” John giggled. “That’s so cool.”  
“Not really,” Sherlock laughed. “A bit of a nuisance, actually. Although we do get to go home early, so there’s that. And maybe we can convince your mum to let you come over tonight.”  
“Yeah, maybe Mycroft’ll take us to the park. That would be fun”  
“Oh please, he doesn’t know what fun is. No, he’ll probably lock me in my room and throw away the key,” Sherlock moaned despairingly.  
“Don’t be dramatic,” John chuckled, bumping Sherlock’s shoulder once more. They giggled in tandem, stopping only when the door opened to admit a tall figure.   
“Sherlock, John, oh my god,” Mycroft rushed over to them and knelt down in front of the two chairs they were sat on, reaching one hand to cup Sherlock’s hands and the other to cradle John’s face. “What has happened?”  
“Didn’t the Headmaster tell you?”  
“Yes, but I’d like to hear it from you. Actually, let’s get you both in the car first and then you can tell me. I called your mum as soon as I got off the phone with the Headmaster, John, she’ll pick you up from our house after work.”  
“Okay.” With that, the three boys quickly exited the school and climbed into the car, Mycroft getting behind the wheel and making sure his charges had buckled up before setting the car in motion.   
“So what happened?” The boys looked at each other, before Sherlock started to speak.   
“There’s this boy in my class, Trevor Pritchett, who isn’t nice at all.” Sherlock told Mycroft the story, downplaying his comments a touch so as to avoid getting in trouble.   
“That was not a very nice thing to say, Sherlock,” Mycroft admonished gently at the end of the story. “Even if it was true. We’ve been over this.” They had now reached home and the boys piled out of the car, grabbing their schoolbags and running into the house. “Meet me in the kitchen,” Mycroft called after the two small forms. He detoured to the bathroom to collect the first aid kit before moving to the kitchen. He found the boys happily munching on a snack that Ms. Williams had done up for them. Mycroft had called in advance to let her know they would be arriving home early.   
“Sherlock, you’re getting crumbs in your cuts,” Mycroft crouched down beside his chair and turned it so that Sherlock and the chair were between Mycroft’s knelt knees. He took Sherlock’s small hands between his own and got out an antiseptic wipe from the kit, carefully running it along the many scrapes and gouges decorating his palm. Sherlock let out a wine and tried to pull his hands out of Mycroft’s grip.  
“That hurts!”  
“Maybe next time you’ll think twice about getting in a fight then.”  
“But that one wasn’t even my fault!” Sherlock cried indignantly.  
“No, you’re right, it wasn’t,” Mycroft admitted gently. He worried constantly about his brother, and the proof of his worry was right here between his hands. He efficiently cleaned and bandaged the scrapes on both Sherlock’s hands and knees, and checked his head for concussion. “You’re going to have a bump here, I’m afraid. It will be tender for a few days, so try not to head butt anyone if you can at all avoid it.”  
“Yes alright,” Sherlock ducked his head out from Mycroft’s probing fingers. After a moment Mycroft stood back up and dusted off his hands.  
“And now for you, John,” Mycroft turned and crouched in front of John, opening the first aid kit once more on the ground in front of him. Pulling out another antiseptic wipe, he gently cleaned the cuts on John’s face. John winced every time the sharp-smelling cloth came near his face. “I’m sorry, I know it stings, it’s almost over,” Mycroft murmured soothingly. Rooting around in the kit, Mycroft pulled out a butterfly bandage for the cut on John’s cheek and applied it as gently as possible. “I’ll get some ice for your lip,” he said, running his hand through John’s hair as he stood and moved to the freezer. He quickly scooped ice cubes into a freezer bag and wrapped a flannel around it, handing it to John. “That was very brave what you did, standing up for Sherlock. Thank you.” He gave John a quick hug, which was returned one-handed as John held the ice to his lip with the other hand.  
“That’s what best friends do,” he replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and Mycroft could only smile gratefully, proud that his brother had managed to find someone so loyal and brave to be his protector.


	20. Lestrade sees the boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade sees the aftermath of the boys' fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Little less Papa Lestrade than I would like, but I'm sure we'll see more later ;). Leave kudos and comments at your leisure!

"Jesus, what happened to you two?” Lestrade exclaimed as the two boys walked into Smithson’s the next day.  
“They got in a fight,” Mycroft replied. Lestrade’s face shifted between impressed, concerned and angry as he came around the desk. John and Sherlock were standing side by side, Sherlock with his violin case in hand. Reaching the pair, Lestrade crouched down and cupped John’s face gently in his hand, tilting it this way and that and looking at his fat lip.   
“That’s quite the lip you’ve got there,” he commented.   
“I got punched in the face.”  
“Damn,” Lestrade breathed, looking over at Sherlock and laying his hand on his shoulder. “And you?”  
Sherlock turned his hands over, showing his scabbed palms to Lestrade. Then he reached down and pulled up the bottom of his pants, exposing his equally gouged knees. Lestrade took Sherlock’s hands in his own larger ones, humming sympathetically.   
“It’s not that bad,” Sherlock commented, pulling his hands out of Lestrade’s.   
“Sure, mate,” Lestrade agreed without believing him. He stood up and circled back around the desk, tapping away at his computer. The door to the classroom opened and Smithson tottered out, leading another student out.   
“John, Sherlock,” he greeted. “What happened here, John?”  
“We got in a fight,” he responded proudly.   
“With each other?”  
“No, some kids at school were being mean. So we fought ‘em. Show your palms,” John nudged Sherlock in the ribs. He displayed his palms for Smithson to see.  
“That looks painful,” he said appreciatively.   
“Yup.”   
“Well, let’s head inside, boys,” Smithson said, gesturing inside the room. They trailed into the room behind Smithson, the door closing behind them.  
“Are they alright?” Lestrade asked Mycroft from behind the desk.  
“They’ll be fine,” Mycroft answered. “Unfortunately, I don’t think this is the last of it.”  
Lestrade nodded his head. “Kids can be mean,” he sighed.  
“I am well aware,” Mycroft responded drily.   
“First hand experience?”  
“Unfortunately. It started around the same age for me as well.”  
“When did it stop?” There was a pause.   
“It hasn’t.”   
He let that hang in the air. Lestrade’s heart broke for the lanky teenager standing in front of him. He rounded the desk once more and slid his hand into Mycroft’s.  
“I’m sorry for that,” he said emphatically.  
Mycroft shrugged. “I’ve learned to get past it.” Lestrade didn’t believe it for one minute, but let it go.   
“Have you talked to the other kids’ parents?” Lestrade asked, changing the subject.  
“No, but I’ve gotten the kids’ names and if it happens again, I’ve got their parents’ phone numbers, addresses and places of occupation.”  
Lestrade whistled. “And how, pray tell, did you get that information?”  
“Unimportant.”  
“It just makes me angry, you know?” Lestrade said after a pause. “that kids feel the need to pick on other kids. That anyone feels the need to pick on anyone? I mean, who does that? Who thinks it’s okay to pick on other people just because they’re different than them? I mean, look at you and Sherlock. Both more brilliant than most of the teachers in any schools, and yet you are ceaselessly picked on because you’re better than all of them. Because they’re scared of you and your intelligence. Because-“ Greg was quickly cut off when Mycroft grabbed his face and crushed their lips together. Greg was stunned for a second, and then he responded enthusiastically. His hands wound through Mycroft’s hair, pulling him closer as he moved his lips passionately against Mycroft’s. They stayed there for a minute, relishing in each other’s breath and the taste.   
“Well, that makes me a little less angry,” Lestrade said when he pulled away, dropping his hands and lacing his fingers with Mycroft’s. He pecked Mycroft on the lips once more. “I am still sorry that you’re picked on.”  
“It’s really not so bad anymore. A few well-placed deductions have ensured that I’m mostly left alone.” Lestrade’s hand clenched involuntarily in a fist, pulling his fingers out from between Mycroft’s. Closing his eyes, he let out a breath and rested his forehead against Mycroft’s.   
“That doesn’t really make me feel better.” He took the hand clenched in a fist and gently spread it along Mycroft’s cheek. “Is it too early in our… whatever this is to say I care deeply about you?”  
Mycroft’s breath was momentarily stolen from his lungs. “Not at all.”   
“Well then, Mycroft Holmes, I care deeply about you.”  
“Likewise.”   
A radiant grin spread across Lestrade’s face. “I should probably get back to work,” he murmured. “But I wouldn’t mind company.” Lestrade took his place once more at the desk and started tapping away at the keyboard. Mycroft lounged against the counter, watching Lestrade work. Mycroft thought he could never get bored watching Lestrade work, seeing his eyes flicker between screen and keyboard as he meticulously hammered out figures and names on the computer, intermittently glancing up to make eye contact with Mycroft.   
“Like what you see?” he asked cheekily after ten minutes had passed in silence.   
“Always.” They didn’t talk again until Smithson, John and Sherlock emerged from the room twenty minutes later.   
“I’ll see you next week,” Smithson said to the boys. “Try not to get into any fights in the meantime.”  
“We’ll try,” John responded, smiling at Smithson.  
“Do you require a ride home?” Mycroft asked Lestrade.   
“I’ve got some work I need to finish up here,” he admitted. “That’s what happens when I let myself get distracted.” He raised one eyebrow at Mycroft.  
“Apologies,” he said unapologetically. “We’ll see you later,” he smiled at Greg, who reached over and held out his hand to Mycroft. Reaching out, Mycroft laced their fingers and kissed the back of his hand.   
“Bye,” Greg responded, reclaiming his hand, a goofy grin lighting up his face. “Oh, and John and Sherlock?” he leaned around Mycroft to make eye contact with the boys. “Don’t be afraid to give them the old one-two if words won’t make them stop. I’ll always be here to patch you up and give you pointers.”


	21. the Bike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns to ride a bike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, kudos and comment at your leisure, I love it!

“This is infernal.”  
“This is childhood,” Greg fired back.  
“Disagree.”  
The four boys were grouped outside on the sun-drenched grass a little ways away from the main house on the Holmes’ estate. John held a small red bike by the handlebars, helmet perched carefully on his head. Sherlock stood cross-armed beside a black bike with training wheels on it, helmet tossed on the ground beside him.  
“Please mount the bicycle, brother dear.”  
“Why?” Said with an extended lower lip.  
“Because it’s fun!” John crowed happily.  
“That is not a good enough reason.”  
“And you can go very fast,” Greg added.  
Sherlock looked unconvinced.  
“And you get around by yourself,” John added as an afterthought.  
“You are permitted to ride by yourself?”  
“Sure, sometimes, if mm knows where I’m going and if I call her as soon as I get there. And she only lets me go a few blocks away from the house, but it’s still pretty cool!”  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought. “You would allow us to travel around by ourselves if I learned to ride this outdated mode of transport?” he asked, addressing Mycroft.  
“I would permit a certain amount of freedom, such as travelling in the town together,” Mycroft conceded.  
"That would be acceptable until I am allowed to drive,” Sherlock allowed after a moment. “Now how do I mount this machine?”  
“Swing one leg over, mate,” Greg told him. He grabbed the handlebars of Sherlock’s bike and the seat and holding it steady. “Step up beside the bike, come on now. Take the handlebar and hop on up.”  
Sherlock complied reluctantly, brushing off the bike seat before gingerly swinging his leg over. “Now what?”  
“Now your helmet!” John called. “Safety first.” Mycroft reached down beside Sherlock and picked up the helmet, brushing it off and putting it on Sherlock’s head, buckling the strap firmly underneath Sherlock’s chin. The helmet was made of hard plastic and was covered in little skull and crossbones adorned with bandanas.  
“Very charming,” Mycroft commented with a small smile.  
“Of course it is,” Sherlock said smugly. “Now what?”  
“Now you learn to ride,” Greg told him. “Start by putting your feet on the pedals. Then start pushing. I’ll help guide you along.”  
“I do not need your help.”  
“Well, you’re getting it anyway,” Greg insisted. “We’ll go on the count of three. Ready? One, two, three!” With that, Greg put pressure on the back of the bike and slowly started rolling the bike forward. Sherlock’s hands tightened on the rubbery plastic of the handlebars as he felt his feet start moving with the pedals. “Okay mate, start pushing with your feet, you’re doing great!” They were going a little faster than a walk, both of them clinging tightly to the bike. Mycroft and John were watching raptly, matching grins on their faces.  
Sherlock pushed on the pedals, propelling them forward a little more. They were connected by nothing more than the pieces of metal between them, the feeling of flying and the sun kissing their skin and it was one of the most glorious moments of Sherlock’s life. He started picking up speed, and Lestrade had to start running to keep up. Then he was letting go of the handlebar and seat, and Sherlock was propelling forward by himself.  
“I’m doing it!” he shrieked, allowing his elation to shine through.  
John cheered from behind him and leapt on his bike, quickly catching up to Sherlock. Greg was still beside him, laughing and clapping along with him. Mycroft was clapping as well, following at a more sedate pace.  
“How do I stop this contraption?” Sherlock called after rolling a few more feet.  
“Pedal backwards to activate the breaks.” Sherlock shot Greg a look that said he was crazy before quickly snapping his eyes forward again. Tentatively he started moving his feet backwards, coming to a slow stop. As he stopped, the bike started tipping to the side; Greg reached out before Sherlock spilled off the bike, grabbing it again by the handlebar and the seat.  
“Congratulations, brother!” Mycroft called as he reached the trio. “Well done.”  
“I’m a fast learner,” Sherlock threw out offhandedly.  
“Indeed.”  
“Did you have fun?”  
“I suppose.”  
“So yes,” John translated. “This is awesome! Now we can always ride our bikes around.”  
“Not always, John, but on specific days during specific times, perhaps we can permit you to ride around the town. Now, come along, it’s time to put the bicycles away and have a snack.”  
Sherlock and John joined hands, as did Greg and Mycroft, and together they walked to the house as a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I'm planning on continuing this in a series, so stay tuned for part 2!


End file.
